Last week I wrote about my failed attempt to get serious writing done at home. The following week, I decided to venture back to the library.
Instead of sitting in the back corner in the section marked “Silent Zone,” I found a more central area, not directly under the AC, that was, at least initially, quiet.
Then someone I couldn’t see carried on a phone conversation at full volume. Minutes later, a librarian, of all people, explained to a patron the organizational system of the book stacks at even greater volume. And finally, an older gentleman asked if the seat next to me was taken. When I said no, he responded, “Now it is,” and plunked down with a waft of week-old body odor, dropped his pile of newspapers next to him, then crinkled through them one by one, all the while taking rattling breaths that twice made me check to be sure he hadn’t actually fallen asleep and was snoring.
After a while, I got hungry and my phone battery was near death, so I got up and left. I’d lasted about an hour and a half, during which time I’d edited two and a half pages.
Two. And a half. Pages?!?!
I went home, plugged in my phone, took up my position on my comfy bed, food and drink next to me, and got back to work for about forty minutes.
Then my bedroom door opened slowly.
I saw no one before it shut again. I went back to work.
A minute later, the door thudded open, as Joe pushed his ride-on airplane into the room, then onto the bed, and climbed up after it. He pressed the button that plays music and proceeded to dance for me, shaking his little body back and forth and jumping up and down, including on my feet. It was, admittedly, disarmingly cute.
Next week I’ll just sit in my car in the driveway.