An old beginning

“In the high and far off time, oh best beloved, the elephant had no trunk. He had only a blackish bulgy nose, as big as a boot, which he could wriggle about from side to side. But he couldn’t pick up things with it.” These are the opening lines to The Elephant’s Child, by Rudyard Kipling. They also have nothing to do with my post whatsoever!

Frankly, I couldn’t think of a great way to open this post. So, I stole one. You can sue me if you want, but Rudyard died in 1936 and can’t collect damages. Also, you can’t accuse me of plagiarism because I told you where they were from and that I quoted them. So there!

Memory issue

You may ask why I picked old Rudyard, and that would be valid. It’s because I have it memorized. All one-thousand words. I learned it in the fifth grade and it still resides in my warped brain right beside Dr. Seuss’s, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. I have those memorized as well. “Why?” you ask. Because I’m a weirdo. That’s why.

So, now that I stole a beginning, spent two-hundred words explaining why I stole it, I’ll start my post. My post today is about libraries, writing, and dead people. I’m already doing the writing, and dead people aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. That’s a big part of the whole ‘being dead’ thing, so I’ll start with libraries.

Fear of librarians

For most of you, I’m betting libraries are something special, and you’d probably think it was the same for me. You’d be wrong. To me, libraries are a necessary evil. I actually started disliking these places of learning at a very young age. I was ten, and my elementary school librarian, Mrs. Andersen, found out I memorized Kipling’s story. I was proud of myself, until I found out how proud she was of me. So proud in fact, that she had me recite the thing in front of the whole school. Then in front of three other whole schools. Then in front of the mayor and his staff. I don’t know what she was getting out of all this, but I wasn’t getting jack.

It was like being a trained monkey, without the peanuts. Once I graduated from the fifth grade, I avoided libraries like the plague, for fear they’d make me perform again. With time, and a lot of therapy, I was able to get over the trauma and eventually go back. But I never mentioned The Elephant’s Child again. Oh crap! I just told all you guys. I guess that’s okay, as long as none of you go blabbing to some librarian.

Office notes

Actually, I’m sitting in a library as I write these words. Is this because I find the quiet spaces peaceful? Or perhaps, being surrounded by all these great books, inspires my creativity? Or is it the fact there are no cats here who love pushing my hands out of the way, and sitting their fat butts on my computer keyboard? Admittedly, that is an advantage, but it’s still not why I’m here. I’m here because I’ve been thrown out of my normal writing space.

You see, I have an office, well sort of. My office is the dark corner of my rec-room. Long ago I had a whole room to myself. Then my son was born, needing a bedroom. I gave him my space and shared my wife’s office. It was crowded, but livable. As long as she wasn’t making threatening calls to various service providers who screwed up our bills again. Trust me when I say, my wife is quite exceptional at threatening agents whose companies do her wrong. I tend to say “Okay” and crawl back into a hole. Not her. She’s tough. But I’d better stop talking before she breaks my thumbs.

Years later my daughter needed her own space, and we both lost our offices. I claimed a corner of the living room. Then the rabbit came along and started chewing on my computer’s wires. A few colorful words later, and I was then relegated to the basement.  

Tell me about it

Thing is, every couple of months or so I see a writing prompt saying, “Write about your creative space.” Mine is a dark corner which I share with a noisy 3-D printer, a popcorn maker, the old television, four dozen Smurf figurines, and a recycled poster of Jessica Rabbit. This is why I never pay attention to writing prompts. You tell me how to get five-hundred words out of that mess.

Today however, I’ve decided to finally tell you all about my creative space. Simply put, it’s everywhere. I don’t necessarily want it to be everywhere, but that’s where it is. If there’s one thing my chaotic lifestyle has taught me; It’s that I’m portable. I actually had four apartments around the country, at one time. I wasn’t a rich rockstar, politician, or escaped fugitive. It’s that I traveled so much it was cheaper for my company. Either that, or my mother was paying the corporation a bunch of cash to keep me away from home, and out of her hair. But I’d rather not think about that, even if it is probably true.

As I said, today it’s the library, tomorrow a coffee shop. Once about a year ago, I was found sitting on the floor of the elevator of my son’s college dorm, typing away on my laptop. But that’s a story for another time.

Last summer, I could often be found tapping away in the grave-yard across the street from where I work. See, I told you I was going to mention dead people again. I always keep my promises. Except the ones I make to myself, of course. Either way, have laptop, will travel.

Caotic noise

Frankly, my deranged style of writing thrives on chaos. I often sit in the food court of my local mall to spew words into my computer. Then I undoubtedly spew again, but not words. Smelling all that grease, mixed with cleaning fluid and bad perfume makes me gag.

In truth, I don’t want a solid, quiet, sensible creative space. Way back when I had my office, I always left the door open so I could hear the cat and dog fighting. My brain translates the noise into ridiculousness. Back then I was also doing stand-up comedy, so the more ridiculous the better.

Group thearpy

Thing is, I belong to a writing group, and when we talk around the table, someone always mentions how they love the silence of the morning with a cup of herbal tea. All the while, I’m wondering if I could produce more by drinking four triple espressos and going to the race track. You just don’t know. But I’m willing to try.

The only distraction I can’t create around is the television. As it turns out, my little hidey-hole of an office has a television in it. When others want to use it, I have to go away. Which is why I’m at the library wondering what I’m going to write and how I’ll start it.

How about this…

In the high and far off time…