I Want What I Want
Dear Writing Friends:
It is Friday afternoon and I have a few hours to write before my daughter comes home, at which point I’m on Mommy duty for the weekend. But my studio is a disaster so I need to get out of the house before I drown in used teabags and discarded newspapers. There are books and papers stacked everywhere, not to mention the little to-do lists that stare at me accusingly every time I sit down at my desk. I point the Subaru toward Starbuck’s but as I pull in, I catch a glimpse of the couple in the car next to me. I know them. They own the coffee shop around the corner from my house.
I sit for a few minutes with my head down and pretend to be busy with my iPhone, hoping they move on without spotting me. But I don’t have a lot of time and I have work to do, so I haul myself out of the car and dart past them. I’m about halfway up the walkway when I hear, “Hi Saundra!” I turn around and feign surprise.
“Oh, hi, I didn’t see you,” I say. “You guys aren’t going here, are you?”
“Nooooo.” They shake their heads in unison. “We’re going to the phone store. What are you doing here?”
Not to be defensive or anything, but I want to point out that I am a regular patron of their coffee shop, Pacha, on Burnet Road. (How else would they know me by name?) I have been buying coffee there since they opened about ten years ago. I know the regulars and I know the baristas, most of whom know that I favor the iced Pacha Latte. It’s made with soymilk, but it takes like ice cream. There is nothing better on a warm Austin afternoon. Plus, it has a good kick. But I have other needs today, which is why I am at Starbuck’s.
“I like the chairs here,” I tell them. And it’s true. I prefer to go local when I can, and I especially want to support small businesses in my neighborhood. But the big floppy chairs are a draw. I like them because I can curl my legs underneath me and rest my notebook comfortably between my lap and the arm of the chair. Also, this particular Starbuck’s has floor to ceiling windows. Light and air are abundant. I feel guilty about working here (it’s so not p.c.), but I want what I want. And when it comes to my writing, I usually let the spoiled child inside me have her way.
In Albert Brooks’ movie, The Muse, a previously successful screenwriter loses his job at a big studio because his boss claims he has lost his creative edge. Despairing that he’ll ever work again, he hires a professional muse, played by Sharon Stone, who works on the condition that she is fed and clothed and that he will do as she says. The Muse hangs around the house all day wearing wear silk pajamas and at night, just when as the nervous writer is about to get down to business, she sends him out for Chinese food. He argues with her, but she insists and, as a result, the work blossoms.
A few months ago, during a regular writing practice session, I struck up a conversation with myself and asked what the artist/writer inside me wanted (I can’t bring myself call her my muse—the whole business is corny enough). I was surprised by what she said. To begin with, she wanted me to clean my studio. How can I work with clutter all around me? she said. You never empty the recycling bin or file anything in that little box you have marked, “to file.”Please put the files back in the file drawer. And while you’re at it, clear off the magazines that are stacked on top of the file cabinet. They’re about to avalanche. Also, books are scattered on the floor and I find them distracting.
Neatnik is not my middle name. I rarely clean up after myself at the end of the day – often, I’m rushing out the door to pick up my daughter from her activities – and when I get into my studio in the morning, I’m nervous about accomplishing everything on my to-do list. And so I find myself running out the door on Friday afternoon, trying to escape the detritus from the past week just to get a little work done.
By the way, something else my artist likes is a purple pen, specifically a Liquid Flair. I’ll write with a blue pen or a black one, but the purple pen delights me. I don’t think I write any better with purple, and hopefully there is no bad purple prose as a result, but that part of me that needs a color fix is happily entertained while I’m writing. I tend to stay in my seat longer when the liquid flair is pouring onto the page.
Lately I’m discovering all sorts of ways to pamper myself while I write. When I’m tired, I write in bed. I know what the sleep experts have to say about this – I’ve done all the research, because I am not a great sleeper – but I don’t care. There is nothing more luxurious than crawling back into bed in the morning with my notebook. It’s even better if my husband stops on the way home from driving our daughter to school and buys me a good cup of coffee (local, of course!). Also, if I have work to do on my computer, it’s much more relaxing to prop a stack of pillows behind my back, put up my feet, and work on the laptop than it is to sit stiff-necked at my desk.
During National Novel Writing Month I bought myself a new coffee mug. I know. Big deal. But most of my coffee mugs are white and this one has pink hydrangeas. It makes my writer feel appreciated. Also, in advance of NaNo month, I spent a week cleaning off my desk and putting my papers away, so that on November 1st I was ready to step in and write 50,000 words in three weeks. It’s true that when I take the time to clear off my desk or pick up the books from the floor, when the studio is well cared for, it calls to me, and I am ever so happy to go in and write. It’s especially peaceful late in the afternoon when the sun sneaks past the sycamore tree outside my window and falls on my floor. And if I’m happy at home, I don’t have the coffee shop dilemma. Which doesn’t mean I don’t take my artist out for coffee when the studio is clean. If she needs some air or a change of scenery, I try to listen to her. I try to give her everything she wants. And it’s rare that she asks for anything extravagant. Like a child, she’s easily entertained. A pen, a mug, or a good cup of coffee will usually do the trick. When I don’t listen to her, or worse, when I ignore her, she pouts. She’s not a workhorse and she doesn’t show up for people who are not nice to her.
The deck at Pacha is pleasant at this time of year. I’m sure we’ll be heading over there any day. As soon as the little voice in my head cries out for some air, I’ll take my writer for a walk through the neighborhood and stop at our favorite neighborhood coffee shop. I’ll order a Pacha Latte while supporting local business, and get a little writing done, too.
This month’s quotation:
Remember that your artist is a youngster and youngsters like things that are ‘mine.’ My chair. My book. My pillow. (Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way)
Writing topic: What I want
Be good to yourself and write.
Saundra
www.saundragoldman.com