There's a joke amongst my friends that I've heard so often, I can't remember how it started. It's not one of those, "What's green and has wheels?" sort of jokes, but rather a loving jab in my ribs. Essentially, it's something along the lines of, "If Crow worked from home, she'd never leave her house."
Well, it is a nice place to be, if I do say so myself.
Environment is important to me, even if my disdain for domestic upkeep suggests the contrary. I'm mostly pleased with the twigs and bits of fuzz I've assembled to make my nest. I like just about everything in my home, with the exception of a second-hand couch gifted to me by a family friend. I've locked myself out so many times because my keys have fallen between the cushions and into the framework of the sofa. I think the only fair retribution for the repeated theft of my keys is to torch the fucker out front and roast marshmallows on its carcass.
Other than my prickly relationship with the davenport, I'd tend to agree with this joke-at-my-expense. Were I to work from home, I theoretically have very little incentive to ever leave the place. But here's the problem: I cannot for the life of me work from home. I can't get a damn thing done here.
This isn't for lack of trying, either. I've been intermittently self-employed for the past several years. Although this work often requires trips to the library stacks and/or long hours in the rehearsal hall, it would be incredibly convenient to do a big portion of the work from the comfort of my home. But, as I said before, I can't get a damn thing done here. Instead, I head to libraries, coffee shops, city parks, or any other place where I can manage to cross one of the many tasks off my list.
I used to place blame on the fact that I live in a studio apartment. When I suffered insomnia problems in the past, Ye Ol' Sleepe Doctor's first suggestion was to eliminate all non-sleep activity, electronic stimulants, strange smells and other distractions from the space occupied by my bed. Studio apartment living means that all living activities occur in one room. Following the sleep doctor's logic, I wondered if the root of my dilemma might be the lack of opportunity to separate a space designated for productivity.
Then I thought a little harder. I thought back to all my former homes. I haven't always lived in one big room. In the past I've had luxury of a special spot designated to productivity. I distinctly remember having a difficult time getting things done in those places, too. I recalled a half-dozen or so domiciles that required me to head elsewhere in order to be productive.
I've thought it through to the point to where I'm driving myself nuts. I think I just need to resign myself to the fact that my home is not a place for accomplishment. If I need to get something done, I have to go somewhere else. If I need to have a good think, I'd better take a long walk.