It is said, when a person writes, it will affect what he or she writes and how well that writing session will be. I am somewhat limited in this capacity but I do not have to be stuck at my desk nonetheless no matter what hour my session is.
I have tried writing on my laptop while sitting on my bed. I can assure you this is not a good way to write. It is unduly hard on the back.
I have thought about writing in the living room–of course, with the laptop–but I am pretty certain I would have the same problem as I did in the bedroom. I have, also, on occasion, thought about writing at the kitchen table. I seem to be stowing away the reasons for this in some dark murky corner of my mind. I have not taken the leap to sit where I have a sliding door to gaze out of, which I expect is highly unusual for me seeing how I want all drapes and curtains open until the moment I head to bed for sleep at night.
Bear with me now, because this does have something to do with the point in question of this post.
When I was a kid, I hated the rainy and snowy days. I would whine and beg to go outside despite the horrid conditions that awaited me. Did I have claustrophobia? Surprising, no. Sometimes, on glorious sunny days, I could be found in my bedroom coloring or writing some story. You might have even found me in the basement doing some craft project. Sometimes my mother would give in, letting me running and skip with the rain drops or snow flakes. Usually, though, she would tell me to find something to do inside. I felt like a prisoner. I would gaze out the window wanting to splash through puddles or make angels in the snow. My bedroom walls would seem to be closing in on me. My only escape was within my mind while reading a book.
April began almost two weeks ago. On schedule, that Monday, April 3rd, I woke up to the sound of rain pitter-pattering outside in the predawn. My thought immediately jumped to the dismay of not being able to go outside. As to be expected, I wanted out. In spite of this discernment, I, also, felt an urgency to write.
In my mind’s eye, I visioned myself sitting at a desk in front of a humongous bay window with the rain pouring down and falling into puddles wherever they landed. I could see myself pounding on the keys, every once in a while, gazing out that window caught up in the oblivion of my story.
Although I did not write anymore that day than I would have any other day, reading it back after the session, I was happier with what I had accomplished. What I was trying to convey was clearer; the flow of words and paragraphs was improved; my choice of words read with more of the understanding I was trying to invoke.
Sometimes a drippy, drizzly, sodden day is what is needed to get the job moving.
Do stormy days do this for you? Do you fantasize your surroundings to get yourself motivated?