Saturday, June 17, 2017

A writer's necklace and a home office

Sometimes I consider buying a writer's necklace. 

Anne has one. 

Hers is on a very slender chain, so slim she seems brave to wear it, a testament of her faith. I bet she forgets to take it off before showers and it never breaks, even in a cascade of hot water. 

Leigh has one.

Also on a delicate chain. She too must be brave. 

I'm sure both necklaces have meaning, and power. These writer ladies can rub the tiny charms in their fingers as they pause between thoughts, remembering why they write. 

I'm not a bracelet girl, because Hello, I type all the time, and something on my wrist is in the way end of story.

Rings are fun but I play with them all the time. 

There was a time where I wore earrings every single day, but I have gotten away from that. I wonder if I should do it again. Once they were in each day, I really didn't notice or feel them (OK fine, after about 8 hours, I do take them off), but when I caught a glimpse of shiny fake rhinestones or dangly baubles in the mirror, I felt feminine and slightly lifted. A little like a Gilmore. Perhaps I should wear earrings again. 

But necklaces. 

Necklaces, like earrings, don't really bother me. I don't find myself playing with them constantly. Not wanting to rip them off after 45 minutes of a good college try of dressing the lead-in-a-rom-com part. 

I've thought, from time to time, of going on a venture for a necklace that says: This is why I write. This is who I am. This is my voice. This is the hope I want others to hear and be able to stand up and carry on. 

Maybe the charm on my necklace chain would be a cross. A heart. Maybe a tiny, polished stone, to remind us that we have not sunk, but that we are firm in the riverbed, being washed smooth and clean and royal by the waters that run over our heads. 

This city is huge. I could get a necklace for a dollar from the garment district or for $1,000 in a Beverly Hills boutique. I could have a friend make one. I could take one that I already have and bless it and deem it my writer's necklace. 

Before I go much further with all this, I should say I am not a believer in talismans. I don't think a necklace will make me a better writer or will make me sit in my seat more often to actually write or will make me more brave or any of that. 

I just wonder sometimes. Maybe a necklace would be nice. It could be a touchpoint. Something to literally grab on to as a reminder of why I'm doing all this. 

Because I'm certainly not getting a tattoo. Nuh uh. 


Here's another thought.

I feel that I am way too early in my career to be the kind of writer who has a home office. 

For one, every space that one can live in in Los Angeles costs approximately


so the idea of having additional space outside of one's combination bed/living/dining room is ludicrous. 

Two, while I do certainly do a lot of typing and musing at home, I do a LOT of it from my favorite booth at Panera, where I am right now. 

My friend Will is here, working on his screenplay several tables over. We never plan to be here at the same time, but we see each other here frequently, which I think is wonderful; a city of 4 million people, and with regularity, I see someone I know in a public place. 

That's one of the reasons I write here. To get out. To be in shared space. To not be the only one whose fingers are tapping keys. 

Writing is isolating. I am with my mind all the time. When I talk to people, I expel the poison of my scarier thoughts, release the excited chatter of my happier ones, and when I write, absolutely: I get it out. There is a release. When people like you read it here on the blog, all the better. 

But to sit at home alone can be hard. I mean, THANK GOD for the cat, who squishes next to me and sometimes gets right on my stomach making it difficult to reach the keys, but still, he's there. 

But it's good to get out. Four years ago, when I was living alone and unemployed, my dad would always encourage me to job search at Starbucks, even though I had few dimes and it seemed a luxury. Dad's a fellow extrovert and he knows the importance of just being around people, even if you're not talking to them. The power of community is so much more innate than we may ever realize, growing up in a non-pastoral life. 

So, with Pops' advice, I would go and order a tall coffee instead of a grande, cash in on that 50 cent dine-in refill, and get some work done. And it helped. 

All that to say, I just wonder if I'll ever be the type to have a home office. I wonder if I'll ever be disciplined enough to use it. Even if it were pristine and untouched, I think I'd feel imprisoned knowing that I'm still not in community. (I may have issues about sitting at home. I feel like as a child I was a homebody, but now I never want to cook or eat at home...things to discuss with the therapist....)

I wonder if I'll ever be able to AFFORD an extra 100 square feet to sit in and write. Here's hopin'. I mean, the cat at least would like to have some extra space to sprawl. 

OK. If you see any writing spaces for rent, or any necklaces that scream "BAILEY" around town, let me know. 


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