My workspace is a 6-foot long desk. It was designed by my husband and built by his dad, who is an incredibly skilled carpenter with his own cabinetry shop. I kinda sorta took over the desk. It’s my preferred place to write. My notes and files are nearby, and there’s plenty of workspace for my ingenious piling system. You’d think an issue I’d be facing is mobility, but I haven’t really had a problem with that yet. It’s true I don’t write well in public. I mean, I can write quantitatively in public, but I delete most of it when I get home. It’s difficult for me to be inspired when there are strangers around. I know it’s because I’m self-conscious.
My husband says I’m hilarious when I’m in the zone. He says I make faces and chuckle. Hey, I enjoy what I do! It just bubbles up sometimes! I also talk to myself regularly when I’m working on dialogue between characters. I have to hear it aloud to know it’s right. I also test out my characters’ physical reactions and facial expressions. But I have a slight hang-up about giving soliloquies in public. I’ve considered wearing an old Bluetooth to pretend I’m talking on the phone when the need arises.
Okay, so here’s the bane of my writing existence lately: my chair. It’s one of those plastic, height adjustable varieties. I waited for a sale day and bought the cheapest one that tilted, swiveled, and had a back tall enough to keep me from toppling over when I leaned back. I wasn’t that picky. The seat has hardly any cushion. I don’t care. The back is at a lazy angle for sitting up straight. No problem; I sit in it Indian-style (or Yoga “Easy Pose,” if you prefer the PC name for it) and try not to slouch all the time. The air cylinder mechanism doesn’t work. It leaks out slowly, causing the chair to lower gradually while the seat turns in minute degrees. Sometimes, I can perch precariously enough that it will stay the same height… until I get up and sit back down. That happens frequently. So, my descent back to the lowest chair setting drives me batty! I’ll be typing away and find my body has turned 90 degrees from my arms before there seems to be some deterrent–mainly, I can’t type with my arms behind me. I know, what’s wrong with me, right? Isn’t there a Yoga pose to correct that?
So, here I am, rising from my chair and releasing the handle to maximum height every few minutes. It’s completely inefficient and irksome. But it could be worse; I could be sitting in Panera Bread, my eyebrows quirked, muttering all kinds of inane statements.