ahream

Sequestering.

Not pretty, but sometimes, it must be done. When starting to get behind becomes falling behind becomes “holy crap I was supposed to be on chapter twenty-five by now,” action must be taken. I pack up my laptop and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, shove it all in the worn backpack I had during my college days and stand with my face pressed against the glass door of the university library, waiting for the campus bell to ring and somebody to let me in.

It’s my monk phase. I get there when they open, stay until they close and break only to eat my sandwich, which I would rather pull out right there in the stacks. But that makes the librarians cranky, and I can’t afford a banishment. It’s absolutely quiet, cold, relatively dark and pregnant with the air of serious scholarly work – except for the freshman who falls asleep in one of the chairs and starts to drool. There is no phone to ring and no e-mail to check. No one speaks to me, and I speak to no one.

Frankly, it’s a crutch. It’s my way of creating an artificial uber-work ethic. Super glueing my butt to my desk chair at home would probably have a similar effect, but I have sensitive skin. I’d probably get a rash from the glue. Also there’s the issue of bathroom visits. So library it is.

I can usually get ten solid hours of work in this way. On my way out, I stop in the women’s room to survey the damage. Blood-shot eyes are usually the worst of it – along with the smear of grape jelly on my chin and that weird thing my hair does when I keep running my hands through it. My husband calls it “tufted puffin head.” (For full effect, Google “tufted puffin.” It’s a real bird. Go ahead. I’ll wait. La-de-de-da... Back? Did you see it? Bad I know. Einstein had a similar look going.) The monastic life is hell on your personal appearance.

I find I can only do this about once a week and still maintain the ability to speak in complete sentences. Usually, I don’t have to go that often. Usually. This month is not so good. This month, I have a weekly standing appointment with tufted puffin head.

Remind me to wear a hat...

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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