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Someplace to be Writing

The conventional writer's dream is of a tidy space, with plenty of light, plenty of paper, plenty of writing implements, and a wide inviting flat surface on which to employ the one against the other. There is a view, there, a nice inviting window framing landscape or cityscape, and the room is proof against unwanted noise. Writer's heaven, right?

It's a solitary hell to the writing Lunatic. The writing Lunatic is in the middle of a fray, almost the more noise the better. The writing Lunatic has a notepad, or laptop computer with a wireless uplink, or one of the infamous three-ring binders. Ideally, if I wanted to really write, I would be stretched out full-length on a couch or the floor, propped up on my elbows, headphones on and mood music blasting in my ears just ever so slightly above the buzz of local conversation. I sprawl on the floor writing, occasionally rearranging myself with utter disregard for the safety of objects around me, cackling with glee as I write something that I particularly like (especially when the characters are having a horribly angsty time), occasionally pounding my head on a nearby shoulder if they just won't do as told.

My writing thrives on social contact. I take everything in, and while I'm processing, kick out the stuff that was in the back of my mind, sometimes flavored with the current ambiance. Papers scatter around me, I post to LJ frequently with the latest updates on the mindspace, I bounce ideas off friends local and distant, and I write. I write, I edit, I revise, I cackle madly as the old ideas line up anew and finally click into place with each other, and I write.

I want the peace and quiet for reading. I need near-silence and no distractions. I can fall into the book's world better that way, sink into a cushioned corner on my back and lose the world for hours. A good book can pull me in through noise and crowd and laughter and fun, but I prefer the silence, so the world won't pass me by while I'm lost in the pages.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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