Writers are outsiders, observers, solitary folk who can be eccentric. We’ve all got our funny little ways – I know that I have, though some of my idiosyncrasies are solutions to my current circumstances.
I live in a very noisy place, a flat above a petrol station with a car repair workshop nearby, and a main road and airport flight path running parallel to the site. Lord knows what possessed me to take the tenancy, but I’ve had to adapt to the noise and lack of insulation in my roof space garret.
I listen to loud music through earbuds while I’m working. In summer, it reaches 90 degrees, so my electric fan becomes my best friend, as I turn into the Nude Novelist – there are advantages to living alone. In winter, it’s rarely above 50 degrees, so I become the Michelin Man through wearing up to twenty garments – including woolly hat and gloves
With writing material, I tend to make notes in LibreOffice Writer and I have about 100 folders of ideas for different things, such as character names, titles for poems, phrases to use and plot outlines. I’m also in the habit of jotting notes and reminders on jobs that need doing on squares of card, cut from food packets. These are scattered around my workstation, and I sometimes remember to look at them.
When I see those articles that Sunday newspapers like to run in their magazines, about writers and their offices, I wonder what they’d make of mine!
Some authors are weirder than me, as this article reveals :
I’ve visited George Bernard Shaw’s home at Ayot St. Lawrence, which is not far from my home town of Stevenage, Hertfordshire. It’s a strikingly minimalist house, as Shaw was an ascetic and didn’t believe in fripperies. His writing shed is situated at the bottom of a steeply sloping lawn, at a distance from the house. What’s useful about its revolving capability, is that when it’s turned away from the house the hut windows and door are covered over by the thick hedgerow, affording complete privacy.
How strange are you? Confession is good for the soul…