Gabi Coatsworth is everything you might imagine a British blogger to be: plucky in the face of calamity; charmingly irreverent, and; possessed of a Sahara-dry wit. She writes The Bipolar Project, a column that appears in Good Men Project about her efforts to keep sane while managing her two sons’ mental illness. You can learn more about her on her personal blog, bio page, and MouseMuse Productions, an organization providing arts and educational programming. Check out her Blogger Space below.
This is the desk where I’m supposed to write. The idea is that it’s calm, with no distractions, and it’s meant to be uncluttered. The only company I have is the person I see in the mirror, and she doesn’t talk much. As you can see, I haven’t quite got a grip on the clutter thing. I almost cleared my desk for this photo, but felt it might make my writer friends feel envious of my incredible organizational skills, and we wouldn’t want that.
To the left of the desk there’s the other place where I’m supposed to write – it’s one of those treadmills that’s meant to help you exercise while you’re working. It goes extremely slowly, and I bet it would work really well for someone who can touch type. I can’t. They never taught us back in my English school. I think the idea was that if we couldn’t type, we’d never work as secretaries, and would aim higher. (For younger readers: a secretary was a person who helped someone more important in an office by typing, filing, making appointments and the coffee. Quaint, huh?) So, I can’t walk and type at the same time. But I can talk on the phone and walk, so it’s not a total loss.
Where I really write is at the dining room table. It’s got room for me to make a mess, but the fact that it’s the dining room table means that I have to clear it occasionally. Plus, I’m in a lighter room, and I work best with plenty of light, I’ve no idea why.
It’s not too far from the kitchen, so I can get a cup of green tea when inspiration flags, or when I absolutely must have something to eat. (Excuse me while I fetch a packet of Trader Joe’s almonds.)
That’s better. All that remains is for me to tell you that no matter where I work, I have my little sign with me: It reads: Quiet please: novel in progress. It’s not worked yet, but I’m signing up with NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) to try and write a 50,000 word novel in November. It’s madness, of course, but all I can do is fail. And in order to even have a chance at failing, I’ll have to write everywhere.
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