I moved into an old, 1940s-ish, new-to-me house in early February and it is early April and two days ago I finally (almost) finished setting up my writing space. I must admit that this is the first time I have felt completely at home since the move. The clock is ticking, the ink is flowing, the tea is lukewarm at best. It is a work night and it is getting late. My mind just keeps buzzing and I feel all sorts of content and alive. Yes, I am finally home.
My writing room is, perhaps, the most beautiful room in the house. It is a many windowed sunroom with a ficus tree and a desk and a daybed and cheap, groovy curtains. There is my grandmother’s folkartish cat clock with the loud steady tick, the desk lamp with the square shade, the green antique-looking wooden chair, a hardwood floor, and a french-style door that can close the space off from the rest of the house when I really need to get serious.
I have never had a room solely dedicated to my creative work. I used to dream about having a tree house or a cabin or a glorified hut in a backyard in which I could escape to dabble in short story and poetry and memoir. Until I finished unpacking this room and began to furiously scribble and type, I didn’t even realize that a dream has come true for me. I have a space that I can call my own that far surpasses any expectations or fantasies to which I previously succumbed.
I could cry.