What’s funny as of late is this whole mission I am on to find a place to write that isn’t my home.  I am not distracted by laundry nor by the television nor by the phone.  My MoJo is just a ‘no go’ at home.  It has started to piss me off.

My writing.  Or lack thereof.  So there.  I said it again.  I said what you have been thinking about if you follow me here.  Just friggin write, and let it go.  Changing my dining table out will not make me more productive.  Adding new shelving will not untie the knots in my head.  A nicer light fixture will not expand my thinking.  My habits need a shake up and that includes not overthinking what I am going to write as well as where I will write it.  I have been packing up my things and heading out each day to find the elusive spot to catch my muse, because as DessertComes1st said to me, “The muse comes when you are creating, not while you are staring at the ceiling.”  The table for one search has been interesting:

They have been chevron.

They have been cushioned.

They have been wooden.

They have been solitary.

They have been synergistic.

So far so good.   I am breaking some ground, and jazzing up my thinking patterns, but like anything else, I have to do it by myself.  All the workshops in the city and classes on the internet will not get what’s brewing internally to translate externally.  A table for one is the gateway to what lies ahead.  Who knew?  Well, that and a pot of tea.