After reading
an article on “The Writer’s Room: authors offer a glimpse into the space where
they work,” I’ve decided:
--Most writers are borderline hoarders when it comes to stacks of papers, books and God only knows what else.
--Pretty much all writers have fancier rooms than mine. (The only antique in here is me.)
But, as Little Willie Sockspeare pointed out:
You can write a great book without having that “cabin by the lake”—your holy of holies, your retreat, your sanctuary—in which to write it. That’s good news, isn’t it?
I assume you’re not at that lake right now. Not looking out the huge picture window to gaze on a vast expanse of lake and forest and . . . . No! Wait. French doors. Looking out those French doors, which are open just a few inches so you can feel the breeze, take in the pine-scented fresh air, listen to the . . . Blah, blah, blah.
If you did own that “perfect” cabin, you’d have to worry about taxes and insurance and a leaky roof and . . . .
Does that cabin have indoor plumbing? No? Then you might end up doing some suffering there on a cold, dark night when nature calls and you have to head for the outhouse.
Here are two views of the 8x8x8-foot cube-of-an-office my father-in-law built for me in 1988. In my garage. Not fancy but . . . I've written dozens of books in here, cranked out countless articles and columns, and spent an unimaginable amount of time staring out the window.
Here is my "real desk" -- buried in stuff.
And my "writing desk" -- with room on the left for a reference book or plate of donuts.
Just keep writing.
