Darn you, Carrie Bradshaw!

So today is Blog Me MAYbe's "May I tell you something about writing?" day, and you know what?

I blame Sex and the City.

Not Carrie's brownstone, but aren't they amazing?
Image courtesy of Robert Linder, rgbstock.com

For many years, mostly because of the show's ever-so-talented (yet fictional) Carrie Bradshaw, I had the romantic notion that being a writer would mean I'd sit in my cute brownstone apartment in New York City every day, typing away on my laptop while gazing out the window at the lovely and inspiring views.

The reality? Yeah, it's not so much like that.

Every morning, I stumble across a floor littered with toys, making my way to a tiny table wedged into the corner of my only slightly bigger office/guest room. There I type away at an oldish eMachine that takes forever to warm up, and if I turn my head to the left, I'm treated not to a lovely and inspiring view of the City but am instead privileged to gaze upon my neighbor's junk pile, and beyond that, the picturesque side of her house.

Carrie, I have a feeling we're not in the City anymore.

Writers can write anywhere, of course, but I've always craved my own writing space, a place that belongs only to me. And who knows? I may well get one someday, but in the meantime, I enjoy learning about where other writers work. What are their writing spaces like? Do they like to sit at desks cluttered with knickknacks and family pictures, or do they work best with clear desks and minimal distractions? Maybe they enjoy writing in libraries or cafés--or perhaps they prefer to write while sitting in bed, their notes spread out around them on the bedspread and a cup of tea waiting on a nearby table.

Last summer I read a book that described just these things: The Writer's Desk by Jill Krementz. In her book, Krementz, the wife of the late Kurt Vonnegut, showcases photographs of fifty-six authors in their writing spaces, among them Stephen King, John Irving, and Joyce Carol Oates. And I learned that while some of them do indeed write in spaces comparable to Carrie Bradshaw's, others, like Toni Morrison, who prefers to write while sitting on her living room sofa, don't have dedicated writing spaces at all. (I posted a brief review of this book here.)

If you're interested in seeing where writers do their work, check out this site. A Twitter friend directed me to it about a year ago, and I spent half the day marveling at the pictures. (Fair warning if you decide to click the link: you may not get anything else done!)


So tell me, what's your writing space like?

Call me what you want, but don't call me Grace

Avid watchers of Sex and the City probably remember the episode where Carrie Bradshaw participates in a fashion show and trips as she walks down the runway. It's quite a spectacular fall, actually, and I've always loved that scene. First of all, it's funny, and second, instead of slinking away, Carrie shows such grace when she decides to pick herself up and finish that show. I admire that.

I wish I could say that I had a good attitude today when I took a similar spill in the parking lot of one of the busiest grocery stores in town. I had just gotten out of the car and was walking to the store, on a mission for a gallon of skim milk and a container of Cool Whip for the strawberry shortcake I planned to make. As I walked toward the store, eyes on the traffic around me, I stepped into a hole in the pavement, turned my ankle, and started to fall. There I was, teetering in my three-inch skinny heels, arms flailing, face probably doing a lovely imitation of shock, sheer terror, embarrassment, and anger all rolled into one. I very gracefully (no, not really) took several clumsy giant steps in an attempt to keep myself from falling, my arms pinwheeling and my purse whipping around. I certainly didn't show Carrie Bradshaw's grace as, after about forty years of stumbling, I finally came to a halt, leaned against somebody's SUV, rotated my ankle a few times to check the pain level (moderate), said a word or two I shouldn't have, and then made my way to the store, head high, a look pasted on my face that said to anyone watching, "What fall? You saw nothing. Nothing."

Grace under fire? Hardly. Really, the only thing that could have been worse would have been if my name were...Grace.

Dana in the City (well, sort of...)

For a long time--years, probably--I've had this fantasy about being a writer in New York City, working in front of the window of my brownstone à la  Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I have the idea that real writers work only in the "greatest city in the world," which my rational self knows is completely irrational. Still, New York is a writer's ultimate dream, and I would love to be there now, soaking in the creativity of all the writers around me. One of my neighbors once told me that he moved to New York  in the sixties to pursue his own dream of becoming a writer. He went because he wanted to be in the presence of others who shared his aspiration. Maybe that's what I'm looking for as well--that common thread that ties people of similar interests together. The few times I've been to New York, I've gone to coffee shops to write, and being surrounded by like-minded creative people was an amazing experience. But it's that romantic vision of the writer in New York that continues to draw me...

I don't think I'll be moving to New York anytime soon, but I do continue to write, sitting here in my small home, staring at the wall in front of me as I work each day. It's not the romantic life I'd envisioned--I'm not Carrie Bradshaw by any stretch--but so far it's working for me.