I woke up this morning, and I couldn’t get out of bed. It was so cold. We don’t keep the house overly warm. It’s expensive and inefficient.
My toes were cold. I hate having them under the covers, I suppose that’s the main reason.
My office is crazy. It overlooks a food forest, a garden full of flowers and edible stuff, all of which is buried under snow just now. I have three monitors and two different hubs to allow different machines to hook up to laptops. An ergonomic keyboard and a trackball mouse. A four-foot whiteboard, and shelves full of books, a blue rug that looks like the ocean and a desk chair made by a mattress company.
That’s where I do most of my writing, but I remember hacking out a story on an airplane once. And on the beach. In multiple coffee shops. Hotel rooms around the world. I swear I’ve composed stories in the shower, even though I haven’t necessarily written them there. The only thing I ask is that I don’t want people looking over my shoulder at what I’m writing. Otherwise, location is ambivalent to me.
But I couldn’t get out of bed this morning. It’s so cold, and it’s not even February. February is dark and terrible, the bleakest month before the sweet restitution of March; but March is far away, and I’m cold. So I stayed in bed, and opened my laptop. That way, I stayed warm. I am warm.
I wrote a story in bed. Haven’t even had a coffee yet. I won’t say it’s a conventional story, even for me. I’d like to say that I don’t know where it came from, but that’s silly, it obviously came from me. And it’s done, a few thousand words colliding under the covers. I need a coffee. But to get one, I have to get out of bed. Who wrote that story for me? I wonder why we’re here. I wonder why humanity. And Earth. And I have this deep conviction that our purpose is to figure that out. I have my way of answering that question, and it’s to write, even if it’s in bed on a Sunday morning, a few words tap-dancing in a tornado, a warm spot in pre-February chill, no coffee in hand. Not yet, anyway.