I try to keep a small notepad and few working pens with me at all times, but prefer to make use of whatever materials are available at hand when I feel the urge to write. This might include crayons on napkins at a restaurant, collected company-logo pens on miscellaneous ephemera, and so forth. Splurging on nice writing materials gives me great anxiety, as I can never decide what writing projects deserve to be composed on more expensive materials. When I write on found objects or freebies, I feel less wasteful, more flexible. When I spot an irresistibly well-made diary or unique pen I cannot pass up, I might buy it as a gift for someone else. If I purchase it for myself, I end up treating it as art to be admired from afar, and never actually use it for writing. This is also true of books I bind myself. It makes more sense to simply take pictures of these things. This also helps because I lose things. This was a book I was fashioning out of scrap materials from a larger project — but I’ve since lost it entirely.

A camera is an absolutely mandatory material for writing — I switch between a Canon DSLR, a beat-up Sony point-and-shoot, the camera on my Android phone, and my HP’s webcam in moments of desperation. I am not organized enough to keep track of each napkin scrap on which I scribble, so creating digital archives helps ascertain the survival of my notes (not that I keep great track of those, either). I also take reference photos to remind myself of things I want to write about, and better-composed images for reasons unrelated to my faulty memory.

I enjoy writing on different textures, and trying different pens.  Given a choice, I prefer ballpoint fine-tipped pens, and almost always prefer pens to pencils. If a pencil is necessary, a 0.5 size lead mechanical one is requested, with a thin grip and good eraser. I used to make it a point to write small enough that the person sitting next to me in class could not read my notes. This was before my handwriting deteriorated from disuse. Now I write so illegibly I can hardly decipher my own notes. I found these from high school, when I could still sort of read my own handwriting (realistically detailed centaurs, indeed):

I blame this on my computer. Like most people these days, I often type instead of write. I take class notes by habit, but when composing original materials, my laptop is what I need in order to write — a laptop with a good warranty. I gravitate towards PCs, and burned through three computers in my four years of college.

On my laptop, I write with whatever is available. I will occasionally start a project in Microsoft Word, then copy it into Google Drive, and move back and forth (ineffectively, on whim), but I almost always end in Microsoft Word. When I finish an essay, I also enjoy proofreading it in PDF form. When I write, I only allow the word processor to take up half the screen — the other is reserved for a document of notes and scraps cut out of a draft.

The only time I consistently used a desk to write was in senior year of college. The women of Mount Holyoke started lining up on much-anticipated carrel selection day before 7am that Sunday morning. I got in line while it was still short for the sole purpose of signing up for a desk in the library to call my own.

Hard at work on a final in my carrel, with the important materiality of snacks:

If I wrote in my room, I wrote in bed — often surrounded by notebooks.

My current workspace resembles this greatly — with different sheets and a new laptop.
After I literally melted my last computer (not realizing the fan broke), I acquired a helpful Targus cooling pad. At home, I also rotate workstations between my roommates’ unmatched couches, my bed, and the tall kitchen table which is the perfect height for a standing desk. It also has the benefit of holding snacks and tea.

Occasionally I try to work in libraries and cafes. I like working in the presence of others.
I have never acquired my own desk, but have been pondering whether it is worth the splurge since September. Eventually, I think I’ll have to.