My office is a place I go to in order not to do work.
Seriously. I work in coffeeshops. I work (after a manner of speaking) when I’m driving long distances. Hell, I get more work done waiting for car repairs than I seem to do on a typical day at the office.
A clarification is perhaps in order: my work as an academic can generally be divided into three sorts: teaching, research, service. That last tends to happen in meetings with other people, which don’t happen in my office because there’s not the room for them. Teaching as such happens in classrooms; attendant on that is grading (which happens anyplace but my office or apt., I sometimes feel) and having students visit to attempt de-confusion (which does, admittedly, happen in my office). And research itself isn’t any more common in my office than anywhere else it seems to me.
So what do I do here? Well, I type. I suppose that’s something, though it’s not precisely what I get paid for. And there seems to be a lot of general mindwandering happening. And blogreading. And other newverbing, I’m sure.
Or maybe it’s just been a bad couple of weeks from the productivity standpoint; I don’t know.