Where I Write

I write in a little nook. My desk is pushed up on one side, tight, to the wall. On the other side it meets my bed. My bed is yellow, green, and brown. The earth tone colors go well with the wood paneling I have grown accustomed to on my basement bedroom walls. I have a chair for my desk, that I hardly ever sit in. Though not for lack of comfort. 

My bed is where I write. Lazily propped up on pillows. My beautiful tabby cat curled up in a place that forces me to lay uncomfortably, but I don't have the heart to make her move just so I can stretch my legs. I turn my desktop to face me and pull my keyboard and mouse as far as their little cords will let me. I turn on an endless cycle of abeyant noise. Movies, music, YouTube videos. All things I have heard so many times that they are nothing more then a hum.

When the hum turns to screaming and the words are gone from me. Like a disconnect from my brain and my figures. I move.

I then write on country roads. Back roads. I drive and write my novel in my head. I get a medium French vanilla iced coffee, regular with liquid sugar, and get behind the wheel of my car and hit the open road. 

I drive endlessly. Finding new beautiful roads with rolling landscapes doted with cows and sheep and evergreens that give way to granite sloping forms that burst up to meet the sky. And sometimes I drive on roads I have taken a thousand times. Perhaps the one that always has horses nibbling grass feet away from the dusty road. Or perhaps the one that will wind me through the neighborhoods with the houses that make me gush over how many rooms are hiding behind the brick exterior. And make me dream of the day, when the novel is finished, published, and sold, that I could live in something half that grand.   

I take in the passing leaves and yellow painted houses as I go.

I drive and think. Mostly I talk. I openly admit to talking to myself. Interview style. Like my windshield is the audience and they are live or die by my answers to the questions I am making up on the fly. 

I will also admit that I am horribly embarrassed when someone drives past me and catches the crazy girl getting really into a conversation all by her lonesome. Thank goodness for the 'I'm on my Bluetooth' fake-out. 

I ask myself about the book, about the characters. About things I know. About things I haven't figured out yet, but then try to describe to my captivated, bug splattered audience. I talk until I have run out of things to say and I can hardly string words together. And that's tough to do, talk myself out. I have been described, many more times than once, as 'someone who likes to hear their own voice'. So when I have talked everything out and my tongue is soar from flapping, I drive. 

The car is silent. My head is silent. No radio. No more thoughts.

And out of the silence. On the dirt roads narrowed by overgrown trees. Among the horse farms with droopy eyed ponies. They come to me. That thing. That string of words shakes loose. And then I come barreling out of the deep woods, GPS guiding me home, praying the thoughts don't leave me as quickly as they came.