It’s snowing. On April 11. It’s supposed to snow more this coming weekend. Crippling snow, or so they say. Ugh. So I’m prepping for a weekend in. Which is usually my jam. Except I’ve been jamming that way for six months. And, as Frances, the badger, said far more adorably than I: What I am is tired of that jam.
I want spring. I want warm breezes. I want to waste an afternoon on my porch, drinking sangria and reading snooty Balkan literary fiction, or white trash noir, or ancient Mid-Eastern poetry, or a 350-page non-fiction work about something I have 315 pages worth of interest.
I want to gad about, and this weekend looks to be lamentably sans gad. No sunrise writing sessions at the coffee shop, with the sun rising pink and soft, and the baristas sleepily sharing gossip from last night’s shift, and only other people around are a couple of AA dudes chatting it up over two large light roasts and a bible.
No deep-dive into the writing, the immersed-in-my-draft kind that comes from sitting among strangers while wearing headphones. Instead I will write at home, in my self-made distraction factory. Husband! Pets! A laundry pile that is likely the highest point of elevation in three counties, stacks of tbr Balkan lit fic and ancient poetry that may rank on the high point charts as well, and countless other interruptions and diversions that may or may not involve Netflix and Tom Hardy.
Ok, so we all know there’s no *may not* in the above scenario. At least some of the interruptions and diversions will involve Netflix and Tom Hardy. But it’s so weird to me, that while writing in a coffee shop, I don’t hear the siren’s call of the internet, and I mean… (NSFW for peen) just google Tom Hardy Taboo boat season two. Go on.
I know, right.
Why is it I can work off-line at coffee shops even with that contact readily available and I can’t fight off other less Tom Hardy-y distractions at home? Sure, there’s the obvious: I don’t want to be the person ogling explicit pics in a public space. But there has to be more to it, and I spent the whole winter trying to trip my write-as-well-at-home-as-I-do-at-Caribou wire to little avail.
I’m not looking to supplant my coffee shop session with at-homes. I want to train my creativity to go with the flow. Write wherever I am. Or rather, write well wherever I am. I can write at home. At least some of the time, but it’s mostly the pick and tweedle sort of writing. Playing around with bits and pieces of a jigsaw manuscript. It’s rare that I get into a deep, 10-pages of pure creation groove.
I don’t know if I need to figure out how, but I know I want to. I have a day job, with occasionally demanding hours, especially in the early a.m. Getting my writing at home act together would gift me so many more hours to do creative work. Or rather, gift me with hours to be frustrated by my creative work (I can’t get this sentence sound right! What’s another word for “curve”, I’ve started the last four paragraphs with “She”) instead of hours in which I’m frustrated with myself.