I can’t write in my own house. Before I spent two years in the desert of Riverside, I thought I could blame my inability to concentrate on my parents, but roommates are just as much of a deterrent, even the rarely-seen ones. There are too many distractions in my living space, and even if I’m the only one home, there’s a nagging sense that at any moment the phone could ring, I could be texted, messaged, Tweeted, Poked, or my beloved yet needy dog could decide it was the perfect time to chew up my television remote and then vomit on the carpet. Though this would probably keep me from turning on the T.V., it doesn’t exactly make for the ideal writing conditions. In the house, I can’t finish a sentence without checking my iPhone.
I’ve always loved the highly romanticized idea of a writer scribbling away at the local cafe, squeezing words in cramped handwriting onto paper napkins, ever since I found out that’s how J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter. Unfortunately, Los Angeles is ill-equipped for napkin-scribbling, which is ironic considering everyone and their mother’s podiatrist is writing a screenplay. I’ve tried everything, and still haven’t found that perfect spot, the one that fits my every need. Finding a place to write is a delicate operation, somewhere that is conducive to creativity without cutting off all ties with humanity.
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