It’s a mystery

Over here at Amylynn Central, there is a frustrated writer in the house.  I have a desk in a beautiful office that a certain contractor we know built for us where once we had a patio.  I spent a great deal of time choosing wall colors and finding a desk.  I sent my poor husband all over hell and gone searching for a certain bookcase I saw online.  I have decorated my side of the room and it is very representational of me: there are old Hollywood autographs, and Buddha and Ganesha and Quan Yin for a calming influence and good luck, a little Bruce Springsteen for poetic inspiration, and tons of my beloved research.  I have my “W” on the wall (if you don’t know what that is you need to follow the link to the right).  My chair is comfortable and properly squishy.  There is good light and the air conditioning keeps the room nice and cool.  It’s a great room for writing.  Why don’t I use it?  Why instead do I have all my stuff crammed on the end table in the living room, the laptop balancing precariously on stacks of papers and books?  Why do I do all my writing sitting sideways in a giant chair in the living room rather than in the beautiful office?  Really, tell me.  This is not a rhetorical question.  I can’t figure it out.  My husband gets a ton of work done in the office.  He’s a musician so his side of the room has a completely different vibe than my side.  His walls are  lined with guitars of all description and stacks of amplifiers and speakers , recording gear and musical stuff.  Even a digeridoo.  Instead, I constantly complain that kids won’t leave my stuff alone.  Although, it’s true they don’t leave my desk alone either.  Is it because I’m afraid my husband will pester me?  That he’ll distract me?  I don’t know.  I think writing in the living room with the TV on is really just another way to distract myself from the work that needs to be done.  Like solitare on the computer isn’t enough.