Okay, alright! It’s not the most clever of titles, but it shouldn’t take long for you to see where this is going.
The cramped space between four white walls and a simple door, with scents of lavender and rose, and quite possibly a small window perch for the cat of the house; it’s here in this place that many successes are borne, but a graveyard for a thousand more. Yes, I’m referring to the bathroom and yes, this is positively, unequivocally about writing.
How is it that a room unadorned or sparsely laden can provide the mind nourishment for its endless hunger when all else seems to fail? How many times has the figurative light bulb suddenly flickered on whilst bathing under the rain of the shower head? Too many times to count in my case. My attempts to write comfortably at my desk- which is surrounded by sculptures of dragons and charr, posters of the famous Harry Potter, and drawings of my own design- continually end before they begin. Perhaps it’s a place too cluttered by other ideas and stories and thus fogs my mind from my own creativity. I can only speculate.
Some days I swear the Internet will be my undoing; it’s a thief for attention that steals my precious time and for what? Biased news, rumors, and of course a thousand adorable cat pictures. It’s certainly a contributor to the dilemma I face, but even when my resolve steels to limit my distraction I find other, more demanding obstacles: vicious headaches, studying to be done, and the uncomfortable haze- the kind that is only remedied by sleep.
I will ever wonder how a moment in the loo, no matter the reason, can somehow bring to life worlds and characters not yet explored. The tragedy is- and much like waking from a dream- inspiration, motivation, and detail can die just as easily as they appear once you cross the threshold to leave.