A Room of My Own

Most writers need a space to call their own. Some have lavish offices with grand desks. Others prefer small closets. A few write at coffee shops, and others find inspiration at the kitchen table. Stephen King wrote in On Writing that he had always dreamed of having a massive desk that dominated his office. After his initial success he acquired one, but after six years of pounding out stories while drunk or stoned, he got rid of what he called “that monstrosity,” and replaced it with a small desk he tucked in a corner of his office under the eaves in his Maine home. Sober for over thirty years, he still works at this little desk, “with bad eyes, a gimp leg, and no hangover. I’m doing what I know how to do, and as well as I know how to do it.”

Most writers will tell you the key to writing is this: find a space that inspires you where you can write and read most every day. It is a pretty simple formula. My little loft office has been a work in progress since our move a year ago. I’ve relocated my desk at least three times, trying to find the perfect light. I don’t play music. I find it distracting. I prefer the quiet snores of our fat, furry cat who often plops himself down by my feet. I recently acquired a cozy reading chair where I often curl up with a book and a cup of tea.

At the corner of my teal green desk sits my talismans, a collection of items that inspire and calm me. The crisp white linen handkerchief and felted soap are gifts from author Elizabeth Berg. The writer’s workshop I attended at her home a few years ago gave me the confidence to continue this journey. The ceramic frog is a symbol of good luck and abundance, both of which I welcome. The Hummel is from my Aunt Bug’s collection. I cherish this tchotchke because it is reminder of all the strong women in my life who guide and love me. The coffee cup was a going away gift from one of student teaching classes almost forty years ago. This cup sat on all my desks throughout my teaching career. It is chipped and stained, but, like me, despite all its imperfections, it is still here. I bought the little green bird at a local shop because it looks like Kevin, the bird Russell and Mr. Fredricksen save in the movie Up, a story about love and friendship and following your heart. One of my favorite old neighbors gave me the little pie pen. Even though I’m not a true food blogger, I often write about how pies are not only dessert, they can be stories of flaky joy and hot messes.

I write most every morning, first jotting down rambling thoughts in my journal and then moving on to writing, research, proofreading, or editing. My writing grounds me. It holds me up. It is flawed, but it helps me sort through difficult questions. It is my therapist, my anti-depressant, my bartender, my friend. With each word I discover the strength to stumble through rough times and gratitude to appreciate simple bliss. I appreciate when others find wisdom or comfort through my words, but selfishly, I mostly write for me. 

This space is mine. My desk. My computer. My journals. My books. My chair. My space. My words. My wonder.

Because, as Stephen King wrote, “It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around.”