I have many writing places I visit for inspirational value, but when I’m away my writing lacks what can only be found at home, heart. I’m a big fan of a local resort; I am a regular guest there in an attempt to alleviate my bordering on the obsessive need to have everything in its place at home. To some extent I’m distracted from this behavior in my poolside luxury casita. But I still haven’t mastered the concept of leaving the bed unmade when I leave. Ok, I fold the dirty towels too, and place them in a neat pile on the floor. Actually, I wipe the counters down, empty the coffee pot, and pretty much make the room look as if I was never there. At least there isn’t a vacuum in the room taunting me with irresistible temptation. There is however an iron, which terrifies me that during one of my blank page gazing nights, might try and press the drapes, or worse, the sheets. The hotel doesn’t accommodate the guest which suffers from bordering OCD by lining all the trash receptacles with plastic bags, with handles no less. They might as well include a map to the dumpster in the parking lot.
In spite of my distractions, I have managed to write two half written short stories on my resort adventures. My accomplishments may seem few, but I do have a very impressive collection of forty seven thousand full bottles of hotel shampoo and conditioner. Ain’t life grand!