Feeling Juicy? Erm, creatively?

Where do you write?

I pretty much write everywhere. Once in my life have I ever raised my head from my pillow in the middle of the night to jot down a plot. Twice more I should have because I promptly forgot the "perfect story" by the time morning rolled around. Once more time, I woke with lyrics for a love song in my head and only remembered half of them. No worried there. The lyrics were far better in my semi unconscious state.

I've been known to work out a plot predicament on the bedding paper in my doctor's office a few times. She's used to it and pays me no attention. I've never written on a dental bib. Three times I jotted notes on a cocktail napkin, one time on a paper dinner napkin, another time-accidentally-on the fold down table of an airplane, so wrapped in my thoughts that I didn't realize I'd forgotten to take out paper. The airline staff was not amused. I was. Clorox took it right off after I'd transferred it.

Two instances I made notes on paper table cloth. One of those was on a date. He bored me. It was here I learned that one should never go on a date with a man who takes you to a sports bar if your intention is to learn more about him than the color of his nasal mucus. His head cocked back, mouth open in rapture at the elevated screen of football players was more than I could stand of his excitement to be in my presence... so I left his, figuratively.

Coffee shops, bakeries, restaurants with friends and their laptops, hotel rooms, my apartment... they are all fair game for working. It is fortunate that my primary computer is a laptop then, no? I'd hate to haul around a hard drive on my hip and monitor beneath my arm. Doesn't leave one place to hold her coffee. My niece, bless her, understands this and discovered that not only is my laptop red, but so is my portable hard drive for back ups. She promptly set me to rights with a red and black Swiss computer bag. All matchy-matchy and beautifully my favorite color.

And when I'm alone in the confines of my apartment, I sit cross-legged in an overstuffed chair, my back to the corner in utter silence. I may have to close the drapes to avoid the Johnson visual swinging across the courtyard, but no matter. It is in this chair, tucked legs, drink by my side, where the majority of my work is done.

In case my boss is reading... No, of course I never, ever email the latest chapter to my office inbox and likewise never add to it and send it home again. Not I.