This is my computer screen, hard at work on Butchered Dreams. It has no real significance, but people often think I’m furiously scribbling outlines for scenes and checking timelines for plot points… As the screen proves, that is not the case. The stuff on the left is the written chapters. The main stuff is the actual text. I use WriteWay and I like it! Lots of authors I know use Scrivener and I tried it, I even own it. But I prefer WriteWay.
As I took the pic, there was a Cardinals game on. My SO was relaxing on the couch, wondering what crazy hair brained scheme I had come up with that required a picture.
On the table next to me is a full can of Coca-Cola which says: Share With Your Soulmate. There’s an empty one too, I haven’t gotten up to put it in the recycling bag. There’s also a tube of lip balm (I make my own and it’s peppermint), a tube of cortisone cream, a pink ink pen, and a deck of cards. I’m a lip balm addict, part of having Sjögren’s Syndrome, although I do not seem to have any other immune disorders. The cortisone cream is there during the summer (I am becoming the Queen of Bug Bites), during the winter it’s replaced with Aspercreme for the soreness in my hands. The ink pen is pink so no one will steal it. I don’t have a notepad, because it’s a thinking toy, not a writing implement when I’m writing. The deck of cards are the same, when I’m stuck, I’ll take them out and shuffle them repeatedly while I think. In July, it was a deck of Budweiser Frog cards. In August, those were rotated out, replaced by a brand new deck: Battles of the Civil War. Who knows what will be next… I collect decks of cards, last count, there were over 700 decks in my collection.
There’s other miscellaneous crap on the table; a copy of Cannibal Dreams, a grocery list that was forgotten when I went to the store, a newsletter that won’t be read, white duct tape, nail clippers, a business card for lawn care services, and box of Trivial Pursuit Genus III cards. However, none of these are writing essentials. The others are…
I can’t sit in an “office” and write. I don’t mind the clutter around me, it reminds me of life outside the computer and sometimes, I do require a reminder. I’ve sat so long typing, my legs have started to tingle and my behind’s gone numb despite sitting on a couch.
There’s nothing terribly romantic about being a writer. There’s no secret lairs that produce manuscripts for you. It’s my computer and few tools to help me think and me.