I’ve taken to writing poetry on our bathroom floor, which is neither an exciting environment nor a comfortable one, but I think clearly in there.
It’s the one place in our apartment where I can’t see the pantry from where I’m sitting. I’m guessing that has contributed to my success. It has white walls, floors, and fixtures, so that keeps me sane.
I sit there and write. I cross stuff out (never too much though, because you never know when you might see something you’ve crossed out before and it might spawn a whole other piece of work) and scribble and brainstorm and wish I had something good to write about.
Then I keep brainstorming and writing and thinking about how I have nothing to write about.
And finally, after what feels like an eternity but may have only been 15 minutes, inspiration strikes hard. It jolts me into writing mode, and then I scrawl out the words on the paper and try to get in the a good order before the lightning bolt moves on to some other lucky writer.
I have a poetry assignment for tomorrow.
Please excuse me, I need to go to my bathroom.