Sometimes I daydream about having a perfect place to write.
A place that’s quiet, and pretty, with just the right amount of distraction. You know what I mean–enough to let me disengage myself when I’m trying to work something out, but not enough to make me totally forget that I’m supposed to be writing.
A comfortable chair, a clean desk, flowers, music. A place where I could hide myself away and be a Writer. Capital W.
Here’s my reality: I write with three kids under my feet, a desk that’s so cluttered, sometimes I can’t even get to the keyboard, a husband that feels compelled to ask me questions in direct proportion to how deeply involved I am in my story. I have Sponge Bob or Thomas the Tank Engine as background noise, a ringing phone and a screeching toddler for distraction, and a desk chair that has lost it’s hydraulics.
Maybe someday, when my kids are grown, I’ll have my own writing space. I’m not convinced that I’ll be any more productive. I grew up with eight little brothers and sisters. I can’t imagine life without noise and chaos. That’s the honest truth.
I’ve been going once a month to Las Vegas to take a class in advocacy for the disabled, and they put me up in a hotel. A beautiful hotel room, all to myself. And I feel like pulling my hair out by the end of the weekend. Maybe for some people a quiet place to work isn’t ideal. Even if I do sometimes dream of it.
We always tend to think that the grass is greener on the other side. I think dreaming of the perfect place is what you use to keep motivated under your conditions. The tease energizes your creativity. That is what you use to survive. And that is why when you get it it’s not so appealing.
I think you’re absolutely right. The reality is almost never as wonderful as the dream.