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FIRST PLACE
Location, Location, Location
By Kathy Altman
King George, Virginia
Have you
seen those commercials advertising mobile notebook
technology?
Professionals work madly away at their laptops in some
intriguing locations: a bright green meadow; a diving
board hovering above crystal blue water; a sunny golf
course driving range.
These images mesmerize me. Is my muse waiting for me
outside? My writing environment includes four walls,
a card table, and a fold-up chair. The walls are green,
but they're not bright green.
Can nature really nurture my creativity?
A large tree in my backyard looks promising. I lean
back against it and settle my laptop across my knees.
Two paragraphs into my piece, I look down and observe
a troop of ants conducting military drills on the ground
beside me. Strike one.
Perhaps if I enjoyed my garden from the safety of a
chair. I sip my lemonade and gaze at the scarlet roses
creeping up a trellis against the house. Such natural
beauty will surely rouse the wordsmith within me.
Minutes later, my fingertips are slick with sweat and I've made more typos than
there are ants circling my feet. I can't even see those blasted roses because
of the sweat stinging my eyes. Strike two.
Is there any way possible I overlooked an exotic indoor writing spot?
The bathtub! Isn't that how romance novelists get their inspiration for those
heaving bosoms and rippling muscles? I see it clearly. The beautiful authoress
settles with a sensual sigh into her bubble-filled bath, her auburn ringlets
gathered into a loose knot on the crown of her clever head, a glass of cold champagne
at her side, slim fingers tapping delicately away at the keyboard.
I assemble bubble bath, candles, laptop, towel, and a board that will serve as
a desk. Fresh out of Dom Perignon, I settle for a flute of diet Pepsi.
It's not quite as I imagined. If I lay back to immerse myself in the soothing
warmth of the water, then I can't reach the keyboard. If I sit up at the keyboard,
then the upper half of my body is cold. I need hot chocolate, not Pepsi. The
scent of that vanilla candle is hideous. And my hair is not long enough for a
topknot; the ends are plastered annoyingly against my cheeks. Strike three. I'm
outta there.
The only bosom that's heaving is my own as I struggle out of the bathtub, trying
not to drip Mr. Bubble all over my laptop. I'm in no mood to write, let alone
compose a tender love scene. I hang this idea out to dry.
I settle myself back at my card table. Forget that silly commercial. I don't
want to smell pesticides or chlorine or get clobbered by a golf ball while I'm
writing. Nor do I want my toes bitten or the insides of my pant legs explored
or my keyboard christened with iridescent bubbles.
A bolt of lightning provides a fourth strike. It's my own nature that must nurture
my creativity.
Copyright (c) 2003 for the
author, all rights reserved.
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