I write in bed.
I’m not fussy about which bed. My own bed is comfy, but hotel beds are good too. And a sofa bed will do, even just a sofa. Or a couch. Or a setee, if you’re posh.
It turns out I’m not the only person who writes or has written in bed. My bedfellows include Marcel Proust, Woody Allen, Mark Twain and Edith Wharton. I hasten to add that I never found any of them in my bed. Or under it. Although I might have read their books in bed.
When you think about it, bed is actually a very good place to write. Most of us were ‘made’ in a bed. We were probably born in a bed. And, unless we’re very unlucky and get run over by a bus, we’ll die in bed too. But, most importantly, we dream in bed, so it’s where our imaginations are most active. I usually (and very annoyingly) have my best ideas in the middle of the night, so it’s useful to be able to scribble them down the moment I wake up. Sometimes they’re still good ideas when the sun comes up. Sometimes, they’re pants.
Most of all, the reason I write in bed is because I’m lazy. And I can never decide what to wear.