I work in a space I call the studio - a converted garage that used to be the artist studio/music therapy room/office etc. of the previous owner, a shaman whose wardrobe appeared to be exclusively Hawaiian shirts, as far as we could tell from the showings. The back room, with its yellow walls, high ceilings, and windows, was what convinced me we needed to buy this house. I remember standing in the middle of that room, asking K, "Can I have this? Can this be my writing room?"
I wanted space away from the rest of the house, because one of the challenges I have is giving appropriate time and attention to writing - and just writing, not writing and making dinner and doing laundry and cleaning up. One of the best accidental things: I don't get any wireless out there. Less temptation.
I used to have my desk in the middle of the room, right against the bank of windows, and it was pretty but it didn't feel entirely right, and I remembered the part of Stephen King's memoir where he talks about his giant slab of a desk and how it was the wrong symbol for writing and his life - and how he was happier when that desk was pushed to the side, and occasionally stacked with board games and pizza boxes and there was room for other things in his space. He said, "Life isn't a support system for art; it's the other way around."
My space has evolved over three years to be more of a second living room - we've added a big cozy couch, an actual rug, a bookcase, a tv - making it a space that's not just about me sitting my ass down to write, but a space I want to spend time in. The studio isn't the only place I do creative work, but it is the space reserved for creative work, and I'm really lucky that I have been able to make it and shape it to be my writing space.
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