Last night, I was sitting in my office, which my friend consistently accidentally calls a "closet." I was listening to music and pausing it to listen to the songs of the Muppets on youtube. Those Muppets. Brilliant.
I have a friend who had an internship at the Jim Henson workshop and then, one day, whoops!, she walked into a room where they kept the costumes/Muppets and saw a room of detached Muppet heads and she hasn't been the same since. Childhood destroyed.
So, I was sitting at my "desk" (a filing cabinet with a, what do they call those? Wings? A small piece of desk that folds up from the side of the filing cabinet). So I was sitting at my desk, watching muppet videos and I got to chatting with our own Peter on the facebook. And he mentioned something about writing.
And I responded that while he was writing I was drinking beer, watching Muppet videos and looking at my bruises from moving a small shelving unit (by myself). The bruises were slowly mutating and getting darker and some were teasing me like "Oh! Am I here or am I gone? Where did I go? Nope! Still here! And now I'm green!"
So, what's to say I wasn't processing some kind of writerly energy in those hours of chair-time?
I've learned that a huge part of my writing process is just sitting my ass in this here chair and thinking thoughts and whatnot.
I don't know if "they" say it or if I said it first, but 99% of writing is staring at the wall, ya dig?