Rising from the altar of David Sedaris this morning, I prayed to find a place on earth where my brilliance could come forth for the enjoyment of my loyal fans. Working from home can be distracting, even when you have the house to yourself. Those urgent voices in my head are quite demanding and are jealous that I dare not honor their orders. I must not ignore the voice that scolds me for not counting the lint balls on my sweater. I surrender to the evil whisper that accuses me of missing the 100th re-run of a Golden Girls episode. And even though my DVR is in perfect working order, that public access program on the Mayan prediction of the invasion of socialist pygmies must warrant that I abandon my work. After all, if the world, as we know it, is going to end and socialist pygmies will rule the planet; I sure as heck want to know about it. If the voices don’t demand my attention, then the Led Zeppelin wannabee in 4-B sure does.

Just now, I heard from a stern voice of reason; not my best friend, spiritual advisor or my prescription medication. The legal department from my publisher, who sounds a lot like Satan, phoned demanding that if I don’t turn in my overdue manuscript by the full moon, that they will sue me for the return of my trillion dollar advance. With those warm words of encouragement, I packed my laptop, lint balls and other writing tools; and set out to find a quiet writing place in New York City. A place of solitude where I could fulfill my legal obligations to Satan.

I once that read that D.H. Lawrence often climbed a mulberry tree to draw inspiration. Unfortunately, since Manhattan is virtually mulberry tree-free, I waltzed over to Rockefeller Center to see if the Christmas tree was still available. You’d be surprised how rude tourists can be, staring at my spanking brand new silver Buckingham tree and pole spurs; as if New Yorkers aren’t outdoorsy. And then the security guards escorted me from Rockefeller Plaza, mumbling something about: “It’s Springtime, Stupid!”

Not to be dissuaded, I headed over to the public library. Surrounded by majestic portraits of dead people and rich donors, I whipped out my laptop and bottle of wine.  Maya Angelou, once said, that a bottle of wine spawned her best-sellers.  That’s enough of an endorsement for me! So I popped the cork on my wine bottle, launched Word software and tried to ignore the hovering security guard, who resembles Fred Sanford from Sanford and Son.  Apparently, his panties are in a knot because I’m drinking liquids! Yet he ignores the pimpled-face dude next to me who is licking the length of the oak table. He ignores the tone deaf Sumo wrestler who is humming La Bohème. He ignores the blonde hippie sniffing a kilo of cocaine behind me. Instead of arguing with Fred Sanford, I decided to just have to go with the flow. Respect the rules and regulations of the library. No need to cause of fuss. I'm here to write, not argue with Mr. Homeland Security. So I re-plugged the cork, placed the bottle underneath my chair, and got comfortable. Real comfortable. I rested my fingers on my keyboard and allowed the words to flow.  Still Fred Sanford has a problem with me! Here I am a humble, world famous author, and this saggy-ass security guard wants to harass me. So what if I’m naked? Ernest Hemingway and Agatha Christie wrote in the nude all of the time. And if this security guard has something to say, then I’m going home; where it is safe for me and my voices.  

Sabrina Lamb is the author of "A Kettle Of Vultures...Left Beak Marks On My Forehead" (Simon & Schuster). She is based in the New York City area of the planet.

http://www.SabrinaLamb.com/