Where I like to write
A friend of mine recently asked me where I wrote.
Hmm, I thought before answering, that’s not such an easy question.
As a mom of three I have little time for the conventional wisdom of an ergonomic chair and a well-lit desk.
So, I inhaled the sweet aromas of a perfectly made double tall non-fat latte at the coffee bar where we sat and answered her question by simply by saying, “everywhere.”
“What do you mean?” She asked.
“Let’s see,” I replied. “I have written in the library, at the coffee shop, on the couch, in my bed, on the boat, in my car, on a plane, at my kitchen counter, on vacation, out in the garden, I think you get the picture
She laughed. “Where do you write the most?”
My friend snorts. I roll my eyes and rip off a bite of the chocolate croissant we decided to share.
“Have you written about it yet?”
I choke. “You don’t want to know.”
My friend’s smile broadens. “Yes I do.”
“Don’t make me do this.” My face flushes.
“Come on, I’ve had a rough week.” I reach down and pull out my laptop.
“Oh my god I love you.” She squeals as I pull up the file.
Ode to My Touareg:
You quirky gold SUV
Constantly breaking, completely aggravating, I owe my first novel to thee.
Your cozy butt warmers and warm lumbar embrace
Have coddled and comforted my emotional states.
You have been my companion, through plot lines and such
Reminding me exactly, of how much I futz.
I have hatched ideas, pulled over to write.
Scratched my head, and thought I was bright.
Waiting for children, too much on the go.
I set up my keyboard to write what I know.
My friend’ s eyes are watering. She looks like she is about to burst.
“Ok I am stopping there.” I say. “I told you I wasn’t a poet,”