In my head, in my fantasies, in my deluded thoughts, I can write easily and beautifully, but only under a certain set of circumstances. I am alone, but people are near enough to seek out when I need a break. I have tea or wine or whiskey or water or snacks, but am not distracted by them. There is silence, or maybe music. The scene is in an apartment in a beautiful small city, maybe the pretend Radio City that a character thinks exists near New York City in “Company.”
I have traveled to get there, and arrive in an entirely new place refreshed and ready to sit down and write. I do so at a refurbished desk, or maybe am roosted to perfection on a couch, or perhaps a divan. There is natural light, and a view, but not one so extraordinary that I am distracted from writing. In this scene playing out in my head, I am famous. Not the sort of famous that does not allow for public travel, but famous enough that NPR’s bookers call me. Famous enough that I run into famous people, and they have enjoyed what I have written, have been moved to thought by it.
No matter what, in this delusion, I write. I write easily. The thoughts flow and fill pages. I do not stop to check Pinterest. I do not look at Facebook or Twitter, my email alerts are silenced, I do not wonder if I am missing a text. In this fantasy I write.
Though this fantasy is entirely in my head, it also comes true. I do not need to imagine myself in a new place, at a special desk. I have a perfectly serviceable corner of the spare sitting room at my parents’ home with a lamp and a desk and natural light coming from a window I cannot easily see out and be distracted. Once I put my mind to it, stop checking Pinterest and Twitter and Facebook, stop worrying about my phone, and stop distracting myself by blogging, I do write. If I manage to distract myself from worries and concerns and turn off all of the bits of my brain but the writing bit, I do write.
I do write easily, and while time will tell if it is beautifully, I do produce pages of work. I just need to turn off the bit of my head that would rather focus on delusions. In the real world, in this world, right now, I write.