Today I write on a cold metal bench in the lobby of a high-rise in San Francisco. Conditions are not ideal as I am trying to write on an iPad in my lap. Bad ergonomics, hard seat, lots of people milling about who could care less about me or my writing. I press on nonetheless.
Being away from home raises challenges to a normal routine of writing, and I am trying to grab a free hour to write in. This hard, metal bench in this noisy lobby is as good as it is going to get on this trip. I easily could have told myself, and believe me I tried to, that these conditions would be too daunting for anyone to attempt writing in, but a still, quiet voice within me emphatically whispered “bullshit.”
I have mixed feelings about my still, quiet voice. Despite it’s potty mouth, I know it speaks truth, but truth is not always what my tired, hassled overwhelmed brain wants to hear. There are many other less than absolutely true voices also chattering away inside me that are neither still nor quiet. Sometimes, like when they scream at me to lie on the couch for just a few minutes and see what’s on the tube while I eat a bowl of ice cream, I do what they say even though I know the still, quiet voice objects. Is this a sin?
I’ll let someone else decide the moral issues on this subject. I don’t care about that question very much. The desire to write is real, and if I don’t honor it enough I will feel an uncomfortable sense of regret. So, today anyway, I’d rather feel the icy, metal bench torturing my unpadded derriere than feel that regret. Besides, I notice that as I get absorbed in the task of writing this post, the imperfect conditions fade into the background of my awareness and I feel a sense of interest and creative engagement.
I also feel a pleasant sense of relief, now that my still, quiet voice has stopped whispering curses.