Well, what can I say? Cue the music, because we knew this house was ours. Call it intuition, call it simple-mindedness if you want, but I believe in that feeling that tells me something is “right.” This house, I knew, from the first step inside, was “right.” Nine months later, I’m even more sure of that. My office space, however, has never been “right.” It consists of a corner desk in our finished basement, which is also a play area/guest room/storage space/cat hangout. A couple nights ago, I tried to go down there to write. First, I stepped over a hairball. Next, an obstacle course of stuffed animals and plastic bowling pins. The kids, in their ever helpful ways, had removed some of the books from my bookcase and left them in a loose pile. It was dark. It was stinky (the litter boxes are down there, too). I got so cranky, I gave up.
And that’s when I started eyeing every spare corner of this old house. I have to tell you, it feels cozy here in this closet, wonderfully cozy, not claustrophobic at all (thanks to the window). I can watch the neighbors walking their dogs on the street below, as opposed to watching the wall in the basement. Listen, I know writers can, and do, write anywhere. Over the years, I’ve written and revised my first book in my office at our old house, on the couch, in bed, at a coffeehouse, at a Bed and Breakfast with Amish buggies parked outside.
But, I also know that, for me at least, physical space matters. It affects my mood; it affects my creativity. I’ve been in here an hour, and I already feel more optimistic about my work. I’ve had some false starts on my work-in-progress. Maybe I just needed a change of space. Instead of thinking outside the box, I’m going to try thinking inside it.