Photos of authors doing their work capture my attention like few other pictures do. Susan Cain, author of (what is for me) the seminal book Quiet, sitting with her laptop in her favourite cafe. She’s writing, coffee close at hand, focused on the screen while patrons move past her. Oliver Sacks sitting on a rock near the summit of a mountain with his yellow legal pad, foolscap size, resting on his knee, pen hovering above the page ready to write whatever comes, gazing at the scenery as he notes down observations and thoughts that have come to him as he hiked.
Just look! Look how mobile, how versatile, the work of writing can be! It fascinates me. You see, despite what is a generally accepted truth — that writing can be done anywhere without need for desk and space and privacy; that it’s perhaps the most mobile of all professions and requires just pen and paper tucked in a pocket (or a device of some kind, sure, but come with me on the romantic version of this journey) — it turns out I do not write well in public.
Oh, I try, and I’ll never stop trying! You know me well enough now to be sure that I always carry pen(s) and paper with me. They lie at my side no matter where I sleep and they are somewhere on my person wherever I go. They’re non-negotiable in my hiking packs. My handbags are sized to include them. I write every day no matter where I am so I’ve given myself no choice but to pull out the pen when in the company of others every now and then. I’ve sat in the back of my car with Tallulah balanced on my knee and tapped out entire chapters of a novel. An article was shaped perched on the bed in the van. Scraps of short stories began in the chair under the awning while camped in the mountains. Tallulah has woken up on the train to Melbourne and made a valiant attempt to create before the sway of the carriage makes me queasy and it’s better for everyone that I return to gazing out the window. I regularly take myself to the library, get a latte, set myself up and start to tap away. I can get a bit done if I nab a seat in the corner of the cafe or upstairs in a corral-like spot facing over the rows of magazines.
If others are around, rarely do I write anything good. The words I get down while I’m in public aren’t necessarily bad but they lack energy, life-force. They’re bland. I think, perhaps, it’s about observation. I’m too self-conscious. Even though I’m absolutely sure that no-one is interested in me, when I pull out my pen and paper I feel I’ve put myself on display. I’m so self-conscious I stutter onto the page, there’s pressure to perform. Maybe I’m worried there’s an observer just like me in the room somewhere, watching. You see, if I see someone writing, I cannot take my eyes off them. I want to know everything — what they’re writing, how they’re doing it, how they feel about it. I want to sit and talk to them, find out where our experiences overlap and where they diverge. I want to know everything there is to know about them.
So, most likely it’s completely my own fault I find writing in the presence of others so tricky. But, just maybe it’s Flow herself, my imaginary creative muse, who is absent when I’m not at my desk? Or is it about the value I place on being present? When I’m with others I want to talk with them, listen to the conversation as it ebbs and flows, be a part of the relationships that need gentle care. Perhaps it is my own need to know and observe that distracts me from being able to write in public. I am the person who disturbs me. I am the nosey-parker whose attention I’m trying not to attract. It’s me. I’m the problem here (copyright for this phrase — some singer).
I’ve taken Virginia Woolf’s advice literally and write best in a room of my own, virtual blinkers on and no-one around. The dogs are the only exception I’ve ever found who can be in the room with me when I write in depth and with flow and that’s only because they pretend not to understand what I mean when I ask them to leave.
I will always be curious and a wee bit envious when I see people writing in places where all the world can see them. I’ll also keep trying, for there is something about being in a different place and breathing different air, people-watching and learning a new place, that stimulates thoughts that come from nowhere else at no other time. Yes, I’ll keep on trying to catch those ones. Meanwhile, I sink into my beloved chair at my desk each morning and feel at home, in the room that is mine, uncap my pen or rest my fingers on Tallulah’s lap, and feel intrigued. What will come today? Let’s find out.