The wind blew like crazy. Not Wizard-of-Oz crazy. Not evil Miss Gulch peddling a bicycle in a tornado crazy. Yet, crazy enough to put a damper on the plans my women’s writing group had for the day.
We had planned to take a short road trip to the Olive Mill, about an hour’s drive away in a town called Queen Creek. We planned to tour the mill, enjoy lunch, sample olive oil, and write in the olive orchard.
Due to the high winds, and after much back and forth texting, our group decided to meet at a local golf course. The property has a restaurant with quiet ambience where we could talk about writing, and perhaps even spend some time writing.
We have five in our group, but one had to work that day. That left four of us seated at the restaurant with windblown hair (well, mine anyway) and happy smiles. After ordering, we talked about what we wrote or didn’t write; how to find time for writing; elements of good writing, and classes we might attend on writing. Over salads we continued to discuss these topics. To digress for a moment, I would meet with these women even if we didn’t share a love and interest in writing. I’d meet with them if we shared a love and passion for dental hygiene or colored yarn. “Ooooh! Sparkly magenta glitter yarn! My fave. Now, everyone floss!” You understand, I’m only trying to make the point: we have an interesting and fun group.

While we discussed story structure, someone at the restaurant got the bright idea to flip on the TV. It hung beneath the ceiling in the corner eyeing us with contempt. The TV blasted a golf game in an effort to gain our attention.
“WHAT?” our group hollered over the TV sports announcer. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?” Our discussion on writing came to a standstill since none of us remembered to bring our megaphones.
We decided to move to the outdoor patio, thinking the table closest to the restaurant would have less wind.
As we sat outside, G… (I use her initials until I have permission to use her entire name. Safe and legal, I always say. I say this because lawyers are expensive) …anyway, G read from a book about the trials and tribulations of writers. It’s a segment of our meeting our group looks forward to. Who wouldn’t enjoy hearing a story of how another writer miserably failed and struggled, then somehow came through to success? Or better yet, just to hear a writer failed makes me feel better.

A gust of wind rushed over us like a runaway train. Leaves and pollen swirled. G and I have allergies and coughing and sneezing ensued. We had to move. But where?
K suggested we move our meeting to the women’s restroom. She had seen chairs or a couch in there and thought it would make a good place to retreat from the wind. Inside the tiny women’s restroom, we found four chairs in a small lounge area that led to the sinks and two stalls.
“Isn’t this nice,” we all agreed as we settled in to resume our meeting. I wondered about anyone deciding to stroll in. Should we invite them to join us? Would we say, “As soon as you’re done in there, come sit and learn about story structure”? Or maybe we would say, “Sorry, this space is being used now. Try the men’s room.”

Maya Angelo liked to read and write in hotel rooms. Apparently she liked to read in awkward positions.

Writers need motivation and inspiration and sometimes a new location can jumpstart their muse. After all, Ben Franklin wrote in the bathtub. Toni Morrison found refuge in a motel room. Sir Walter Scott wrote while on horseback and Edith Wharton wrote in bed.
These writers wrote in quirky places and had success. Why not the women’s restroom for us?

An overpowering fragrance of floral air freshener mixed with some kind of antiseptic cleaning fluid clouded my thinking. My eyes hurt from the fumes. I felt slightly ill.

Famed screenwriter and novelist Dalton Trumbo looks glum while writing in the bathtub.

Did Edith Wharton put up with floral air-fresheners, gusty winds, loud sports announcers, and cold coffee? (I didn’t mention I had cold coffee, did I?) No…no she didn’t. A maid probably served her tea on a breakfast tray while she lounged in bed penning her Pulitzer Prize-winning novel The Age of Innocence. I’d like to say I admire Edith for the success she achieved. I’d like to say that, but I won’t.

Because that would be a lie. I don’t have any patience for writers who stay in bed, hardly suffering for their craft while all cushy under the blankets. Flannery O’Conner (a real writer) said, “Writing is like giving birth to a piano sideways. Anyone who perseveres is either talented or nuts.”

Writers need pain to fuel their creativity. They need Yngwie Malmsteen music, a great guitarist by the way. Writers need to get out of bed and truly suffer.

But Edith remained comfy in bed writing her novels. I don’t have any idea how she ever achieved anything.

βω♥

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” 
—Ernest Hemingway