For Christmas, my husband installed a midcentury modern teak standing desk for me. I absolutely love it. I was tired of sitting at my old desk, tired of using a kitchen chair and a makeshift (no pun intended) keyboard slider tray. The old way was okay. It got the job done. But it didn’t satisfy some secret need in my soul.
I think we all need rituals that inspire us. They may change over time, but they serve the purpose when we need them.
Curious, I googled authors and found we’re a fussy lot. Some, like Capote and Wharton, wrote in bed. Kierkegaard, Woolf, and Dickens wrote while standing. Some listened to music, others demanded complete silence. E.B. White penned his novels in a stark boathouse with nothing but a table, bench, and typewriter. I believe Roald Dahl loved writing in an easy chair. Quite a few wrote in bustling cafes with never-ending supplies of coffee.
Sometimes it spurs me on to read about other writers; sometimes it depresses the hell out of me. I still do it. Writing is a solitary journey (even if you’re in that cafe), and I suppose I just want to feel connected. The whole point of writing a blog, eh?
I’m sure there are weirder ways to write out there, and that writers probably vie with baseball players for odd superstitions. Lucky pens. Wearing the same clothes. Writing in secret (that was mine for a year.) A dedicated playlist. A dedicated fill-in-the-blank.
Now, I stand. It’s taken me awhile to find the perfect place. My new desk calls to me, and I just walk over to it. Easy peasey. For some reason, when I stand there’s less commitment, less trepidation. Maybe those aren’t the right words. So many nuances. Duty? Responsibility? Pressure? Whatever the best word is, I feel less of it.
Of course, writing in my Moleskine (another ritual) while lounging in a recliner, basking in the sun is nice, too.
What about you? What’s your favorite or weirdest place to write? Your can’t-miss ritual?