Sometimes when I am out of my comfort zone, I sit and imagine I am in my favourite places and am writing at full capacity. It is a favourite dream of mine, especially when I am in places that I really don’t want to be in. Those kinds of favourite dreams I liken to a dog with a favourite bone. He unearths it from where it was buried, takes it to his bed and chomps on it for a while, before tiring of it and carefully burying it again to enjoy some other time.
So what would be my ideal writing day?
I would wake up, feeling refreshed. Not tired and achy, like the usual. There would be a perfect coffee waiting for me. Breakfast would be something delicious, giving lot of brain food, but low impact on what is a sedentary day. It would still be early in the morning, where the sun is weak and watery, there’s still dew on the grass, and the morning still has the night’s coolness about it. I would go to my office, second coffee in hand. My desk would be perfectly clean, and my chair would be set just right. I would be able to sit down and get started. A cat jumps up onto my lap, curls up and remains there. Every so often I would get up and get another coffee or tea. I would make impressive leaps and bounds on my work. At some point I’d stop for a tasty lunch, and then move onto something like world building or editing. I would work until I need a tasty snack, or more coffee and tea. I wouldn’t be disturbed, I would have achieved a lot by the time I stop, and go prepare dinner. After dinner, I might read over my day’s work, or I might read something else. My back wouldn’t hurt, my fingers wouldn’t tingle. I wouldn’t be cursing my characters for going on tangents that don’t tie into this plot. I might contact another writer and talk shop. It would be a good day.
My day’s work might consist of writing, editing, reading, world building, creating conlangs, researching and other assorted things that tie back to my major goal of achieving progress on my works in progress. It would be a good day, an ideal day.
More often than not, I’m stuck on the couch with my laptop on my knees, a coffee or tea cooling rapidly on the window sill, shifting around in discomfort every so often. Procrastination happens. A lot. I mooch about. I mutter to myself. I shake my hands out, get up and stretch. My characters wander about, my plot spawns new plots, sub plots, new ideas. I scratch out notes that barely make sense on scraps of paper. I get stuff done, but it’s not in that beautiful environment I imagine. A cat sits beside me, swishes her tail over the keyboard, stands up, puts her butt in my face. Walks over my laptop and meows for food. The other cats are having a spit and spat, and I have to get up to seperate them. It might not be that idealistic dream I take out and chew on every so often. But as long as I get stuff done, make progress, actually have sat down and worked on my projects for a good chunk of time, I have achieved something. It’s a good feeling.