I am coming to you this morning from a strange location: the couch.
I know: I work at home, so I must fucking live on the couch, right? I must wallow in its cushioned embrace until its corduroy lines are imprinted over my tattoos. Its seat must contain lost pens and index cards and story notes to the point where it will someday be examined by future generations as the only known example of a sentient, book-writing piece of furniture.*
Not the case. I mentioned ages ago that I was switching to a standing desk, but even before that, I didn’t usually write on the couch. For one thing, it’s too goddamned comfortable. Too much time on this thing, especially in warm weather, and I’m down for the Odin Sleep. For another, it just doesn’t feel right. I prefer to work at a dedicated workspace.
In other words: couches are for reading, sleeping, and having sex on. Not for working.
The problem at the moment is that I am in the process of replacing my old desk, a lovely 1940s piece, with a big-ass drafting table that I bought from a friend’s mom. The drafting table had to be repainted, so it’s out on the deck waiting for the third coat of Gloss Apple Red–also known as Really Fucking Red–to dry. The old desk is currently enjoying its new life as a bar. Which leaves me with the temporary standing desk I was using for the last couple of months, but there’s so much junk around from the process of moving furniture and reorganizing that I can hardly fit the computer on between the photos, pellet guns, and brass knuckles.
The point of this complaining is that I am, at the moment, out of place. This is not where I should be.*** And the cognitive dissonance is weirding me the fuck out. I might as well be writing in my bathtub. Or in bed.
Today’s Monday Challenge: write someone who is out of place. They are somewhere they do not belong, and they know it. Where are they? Why are they there? What are they going to do about it?
I’m going to go check and see if my desk is dry yet.
*King of Naps: One Couch’s Perspective on Recliners and Other Pretenders To The Throne by Thaddeus P. Chesterfield.**
**Shit, I think I just named my couch. Now I feel weird about sitting on it.
***I will note that I am perfectly capable of writing in other places outside my home. Those are fine. I mentally categorize them as ‘temporary workspace’. The couch, on the other hand, is resisting all attempts at relabelling and insisting that I must be here for a nap.