Room To Write
It’s writing time and I must find a place where I can sit down and be alone with my thoughts. Since I’m at home, a place should be easy to find. There’s the loft, my designated workspace; an open room laden with electronics. As I sit at my desk to write the shades are drawn in front of my window facing desk. No need to watch my neighbors dealing with their decks, lawns, and playing with their dogs. Though the glass sliding doors to my right are open and the sun shines brightly down through the overhead skylight, my focus is straight ahead, looking at my computer screen, searching for that one thought to write about that eludes me. Bookcases surround me, overstuffed with unopened music books on my right. Equally unused childhood books and language books on my left, daring me to read them and be distracted from the task at hand. Behind me tall shelves of story books; each filled with adventures from all over the world, calling to me, “Don’t write, come to me and I will tell you a tale of great people and adventures they had.” Though there are comfy chairs to sit in, I station myself at my desk, lean forward in my chair awaiting the thoughts needed to begin to scribe. Piles of scrap paper scattered all around me on my desk, taunt me with failed attempts to begin. Too many ideas, once started, never finished. I’m lost in a sea of nothingness. So much to write, but nowhere to begin.
But then a spark…Another room awaits.
Downstairs, there’s a room. It’s seldom used. There’s a writing desk against a blank wall, painted in a grayish blue hue. Shades closed on windows that provide little light, even in daytime. The warming glow of the standing lamp by the desk projects serenity, leaving my mind free to wander within itself. Yes, there are papers on the desk, but in this instance, they are neatly stacked and organized with story prompts, finished pieces of writing, collections of sentences in French and German; all there to encourage and inspire. The room has a bed on one wall, two dressers on opposite sides of me, separating his from hers, a small bookshelf from days past used by others to hold schoolwork and games
But all that disappears leaving only me, a chair and my desk. I am surrounded by the sweet smell of clarity, the low hum in the air of success. From within I hear, “Write, Write, Write… Coalesce those thoughts that are wandering through your head and put them on paper. Move those fingers on the keyboard and Create, Imagine, Explore, Invent, and Write.”
And so I do.
My writer’s desk
