Whether luck or prudence
provided me with a room of my own is for others to determine. My suspicion is
that, in common with most things in life, it's a mixture of these things. Be
that as it may, I have the good fortune to have a room in which I can lock
myself away from other concerns when I write.
It's not ideal. Small,
with a window, behind me, that overlooks the end of the drive with the fence
between us and the neighbours beyond and the garage door to the right. As I
sit, at a desk built from a flat-pack kit bought some twenty or so years ago, I
face the door into the hallway of our bungalow. At present, because I'm writing
this before my wife and daughter have emerged from sleep, I have that door
closed. Hanging from a hook on the back is a hand drawn map of the land I'm
using to set my epic fantasy. Beside that, a cork board bears a few documents as
aids in my everyday writing as well as a collage I made as part of the creative
aspect of
Julia Cameron's
The Artist's
Way course I'm currently undertaking. It depicts those things I most want
in life and is intended as both motivator and reminder of why I do this thing;
writing. Next to that is a portrait of my wife and a couple of self-designed
posters to act as reminders about certain of my less positive aspects -
positive statements to keep me on track.
A large, four drawer
cabinet sits below these, housing an assortment of things that have nothing to
do with my writing; it lives here as the only suitable location for such a
metal monstrosity. Utilitarian but exceedingly useful.
Directly in front of the
desk a small chest of drawers stores various bits and pieces and acts as base
for my printers. Printers? Yes. A monochrome multifunction laser printer for my
physical submissions; it gives the best quality text. And a colour inkjet for
my drafts and to print off those things that need to be in colour, including
photographs.
My desk holds the
computer, which actually sits on the desk as there's no room on the floor,
where my feet rest on a plastic footrest. A pair of headphones sits on top of
the computer box, for those times I want to exclude all external noise, playing
the music I have recorded onto the system. My flat screen monitor is directly
ahead, on one of those rotating stands that allows it to be moved out of the
way. The speakers sit either side and the mouse, along with a
graphics pad rest
to my right. The box of gubbins that projects the internet signal to my wife
and daughter's computers also lurks there, under the monitor. A document stand
rises with various bits of essential paperwork to the left and a coaster holds
a glass of water (I never drink alcohol in here, though wine is stored in a
rack just behind the door.)
I have pens, pads and
post-it notes at hand either behind me on the windowsill or on the desk itself.
The drawers to my right hold all the essential stationery and other stuff I
might need.
The walls on either side
are lined from floor to ceiling with shelves bearing most of my books. My
essential reference volumes are within easy reach for all those occasions I
need to consult an oracle.
I play music as I write.
Not because I listen to it, but because it excludes those external sounds that
might otherwise distract me. I have two playlists. One mostly of popular music
and giving 2 days of tunes if played constantly. The other contains classical
music and would last for a day and a half if played without stopping. I play
them alternately and use the random selection option so I never know what track
is coming next.
A radiator at my back
keeps me warm in winter and the window above it can be opened for fresh air and
cooling breezes in summer.
There is little
decoration, largely because there's very little spare wall space. But there's
room for a few pictures and I intend to fill that soon. I also have a couple of
small statuettes; one a porcelain slip cast in white of a female torso that I
picked up from a potter in the
Yorkshire Dales many years ago. The other is a
fairly primitive carving of a kneeling woman, which I found in a shop on the
Greek
island of Rhodes, a favourite holiday destination. I like it for its
simplicity and natural quality.
So, there you have it. The
place I use to create my works.
Is it ideal? Of course
not. I'd love a large library room, with an antique desk and plenty of space to
spread out, and a view overlooking the sea, to which I could walk in minutes.
But that's the dream and it'll take a lot more work to make it reality.
But it is my own room. My
private space. I can relax in here and do as I wish. My wife and daughter
respect my need for solitary times and rarely interrupt me, unless they have
some sudden computer issue that needs sorting or some domestic emergency arises
that I'm best suited to resolve.
I have my space and I make
great use of it. I admire those writers, usually women, who are forced to carry
out their craft at the dining table with family as constant distraction. To
create under such conditions would be almost impossible for me, and I salute
their dedication and ability.
So, where do you write?
Share your space with others who visit this site and see if we can't, between
us, inspire some creativity.
Okay, so what happened to day 21? Well, the truth is that I was rather otherwise occupied. A neighbour, who was kind and influential during my teenage years, died last week and I attended her funeral, some distance away, yesterday.
