While I write I hate to be interrupted. Even the most minimal unwanted noise will alert my brain to an impending intruder of seeing my work before its complete...and spell checked.
The lighting, or at least in my ideal "writing world", has to be dim or natural. I remember scribbling away a poem under the harsh lights of my high school classroom thinking how everyone paled under the fluorescent flaw-finder and that I would never use what was being taught in real life.
Lighting for an artist, even writers, is quintessential. I prefer a big room with windows, its dimness letting my mind wonder about the shadows. There I sit on a bed. I'll never know how people can write at desks. Too rigid. Too formal. I sit at a desk, knowing there is someone sitting at a bigger one.
As for beds? Well I don't need a big bed.
Beds leave the spirit comfortable, or at least they do that to mine. I lay on a bed and I instantly playback my day...the people, the outfits, the colors, the words...and if it was a good day, I am left feeling inspired.
Writing is what I'm doing when I've become disinterested in conversation. For writers, each minute is the light tapping of letters, forming a monologue that must be poured out. My incessant writing is what has kept me sane when I'm sitting at my country club. Listening to the drones of the wealthy I find myself cast back in a Jane Austen novel, or better yet Edith Wharton and here I am, the Lily Bart of the new millennium. With this light tapping, I can find the words that often escape us in the moment most desired and my delivery is without falter.
I'm aware this post is a bit slanted compared to my usual stylized banter, but style does not obey the immigration laws of society. It roots itself in everything that we are, and for me...that is my words.
Fashion is what I do...but writing-that's what I am.