Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Doors: A writer's best friend
True. I don't think I need to say much about this. And my friends who are photographers or artists who also spends loads of hours by themselves, content and absorbed in their work, also concur: Doors are a creative person's best friend.
Working at home (and yes, I do consider writing to be more than a hobby) provides tremendous distractions. Housework is the least of these. If the laundry needs to be done and I'm home alone, I can pop up from my swivel chair and attend to it in between scenes or when my brain gets stuck. Laundry does not bark at the meter reader, it does not ask to be fed or taken to school, and it does not rev up the power tools to give me a headache. In short, although it needs to be washed, dried and folded occasionally so that my family can venture out in public without the shame of smelling like the bottom of a gym locker, if I ignore it for a few hours a a few days, no one will die and the world will not end. Yay for that!
Lately, I've been in major writing mode. The family has not yet caught on to this. Me hunched over the keyboard, grumbling at intruders or altogether ignoring them has not been blatant enough. Apparently I need to send up signal flares and an airplane trailing a banner that says: MOM IS WRITING. PLEASE WAIT FOR HER TO EMERGE. UNTIL THEN, ASK YOUR FATHER.
Since I have neither of those, I will go back to hanging the little handwritten index card on my door that says: WORKING, DO NOT DISTURB. EXCEPTIONS - BLOOD, BROKEN BONES, VOMIT AND DOG FIGHTS.
Having said that, I'm having a guilt complex about being anti-social. Writers and artists work odd hours and do, by nature, tend to be reclusive - at least while they're in a creative mode. Some can shut out the world entirely, writing in coffee shops or painting while crowds pass by and ask questions. Some can snap out of the zone to attend to those nearby, then jump right back in. Some of us need chunks of uninterrupted time.
Me, I like my door.
P.S. And I still love my family.