Crick

Used to be the only problems that kept me from writing when I sat down were enough time, writers block, self-confidence or attention starved kitties.

Now it's a crick in the neck.

My almost-fifty-year-old body does not want to sit anywhere longer than 10 minutes that isn't ‘indently’ familiar. With my new determination to write within the available time I have, I realized I had to be a lot more mobile. I've got notebooks with pens attached and mini-tape recorders for riding in the car. I also use my computer like the laptop it was designed to be and carry it around the house with me. What a concept!

So I plug it in above the toaster and open it on the kitchen counter to type notes while I'm doing other chores (not making toast). Oh, but this is not the angle my neck likes to be held in!

“HEY!” It says to me if I tilt it the wrong way for a few extra minutes. Of course my almost-fifty-year-old eyes have to peer through the half inch circumference of my tri-focals to find which ‘tri’ will provide ‘focal’ whilst my head scans up and down.

I plop my laptop on the kitchen table and sit to hammer out a few lines of thought for a half hour and “TWEEEEK!” my hips tell me. This is not the office chair!! Why aren't my legs in the right place??

I set up my card table in the living room, but had to go through two chairs and four variations of pillow arrangements and a hassock to make this body happy for the actual hours I spend there.

The other night DP made a kind suggestion to place my card table in a certain spot over one of our dog crates, so I could just pull up a chair and write and not have to set it up and break it down each time. I stared at her blankly; I can't start all over again in a new spot, my body screamed at me.

"I...I...I need a hassock," I finally muttered walking away, shaking my head.

She never spoke of it again.