I remember back in college reading that essay by Virginia Woolfe. In effect, she said, for a woman to write she must have an income of no less than 500 pounds and a room of her own. I think my modern equivalent of this has become a roll of quarters and a laptop at the laundromat.
Seriously, I get some of my best work done in those two hours a week I spend waiting for the wash cycle to end, or the dryers to go off. Thanks to the invention of headphones and MP3 music files, I don’t really feel obligated to socialize.
I love to write at home, and I do for most of the time. But I have a 40 a week day job, a partner I adore (and find it very hard to ignore), and tons of responsibility.
At the laundromat, I’m just that chick with the lap top who doesn’t fold her clothes until she gets home.
I can live with that.