The concept of writing in a coffee shop or the library or outside appeals to me, but truthfully I’m too neurotic and allergy-prone to work successfully in any of these environments. I need to be able to work with minimal interruptions, and I have paranoid delusions about members of the public standing behind me and judging the brilliance (or dullness) of my blog (not aided by this actually happening to me in a Waffle House once). I’m such an introvert that the idea working anywhere in the proximity of people is exhausting to me and know that every time someone walks into the room I’ll be thinking, “OH GOD, x/y/z person knows I’m writing the shittiest post in the history of blogging.”
For whatever reason, this picture of Grace Metalious (Peyton Place) has stayed with me: huddled over a typewriter, hair pulled away from her face, baggy jeans, plaid lumberjack shirt, canvas shoes, and looking unfairly gorgeous and focused.
Here’s a charming scene: me. Couch. Laptop, slippers, cat. Variations on shorts, ratty jeans, sweatpants, PJs, bra, no bra. I work on my post. Sometimes I listen to a Motown station on Pandora, sometimes Penguin Café Orchestra, sometimes nothing. The cat sleeps or, since the arrival of Bertha Mason, bites the shit out of my ankles. Occasionally I leave the room to make another cup of tea. I’ll leave that scene to your imagination.
It takes me an embarrassing amount of time to form a sentence because my brain is too busy overanalyzing the shit out of the next word I may or may not write. I always try to convince myself to write things out by hand, but I’m an incredibly lazy person in my heart and don’t want to have to write things out and then write them again. Now you know I essentially write as if I’m a poorly dressed hermit who is allergic to sunlight. You shouldn’t be all that surprised.
Since it’s required for this prompt, poll time:
The Pink Panther Snipes Again 