Bed, sweet bed.

My bed is the center of it all. I know they say that doing any type of work on your bed is bad, because then the brain can't differentiate from sleep time and work time. But what can I say, I'm a rebel. When I write, whether for school or for fun (which is so rare these days, I never have the time), I pull on a sweatshirt, climb into my twin bed, pull my flowery, fluffy blanket (that is much too warm, but I can't seem to stop using it) up to my waist, lean against my propped up pillows on the backboard of my bed with my legs stationed ready to serve as a table top, grab my semi-giant dell laptop and prop it on my thighs. Every time. 

After that anything could differ. I may switch positions, bring the blanket so it only covers my freezing feet, put my hair in a pony tail or bun, distract myself for twenty minutes with song lyrics that are stuck in my head, or the tiny spider crawling on my wall, or maybe my parents will interrupt with some dire chore that needs to be done "RIGHT AWAY!" 

I can't say it's anything special, or something a real writer would do. Although I guess you told us not to think of professional writers as the only real writers out there. I wonder what their process is. If some just sit at their desks and get to it, or if they slink down in the corner of a room with a laptop and coffee in hand. I wonder if any of them want to write every day. If every morning they wake up and think, "Gosh, I can't wait to get to my computer!" I imagine not. Committing to doing anything every single day would have to be a struggle, or maybe it's because my attention span is so short. Who knows. But I can't imagine waking up every single morning, doing the same exact thing, in the same exact place, with the same exact people. How horrid. 

Man, do I digress.