Writing Nook

 When I bought a house (not on any royalties from my writing, mind!) I looked for a place with a writing nook.  In order to work remotely I had to prove that I had a dedicated office since, well, the man doesn’t like competition.  The writing nook was supposed to be separate.

This requirement automatically ruled out modern houses.  New houses have no space for books—they’re designed around entertainment centers and home theaters.  We needed an older place.  We found something from the 1890s.  Perfect.

I tried writing in our downstairs office.  It’s where my wife put the desktop computer—really, there was nowhere else for it—and it has no room for books.  It’s also very cold in winter.

Then I tried the attic.  It’s sufficiently creepy and it’s full of books.  It’s even colder than the downstairs study in winter, however.  And, to get to the bathroom (I write very early in the morning), I have to creak down the stairs and through the bedroom to get there.  Between the cold and the awaking of spouse, it just doesn’t work.  I still have a desk up there, though.

Then I settled in the living room.  My favorite chair.  I can bundle up in winter and the bathroom is right there.  But I would barricade myself in with books.  Whenever anyone came for a visit I’d have to put them all away and try to remember where I left off when they left.

Finally I settled on the work office.  It is full of books, and it is, it turns out, the warmest room in the house.  Still, I sit here at least ten hours a day Monday-through-Friday, most of it at a deadly dull job.  I associate the room with misery.

But it’s growing on me.  The thing about writing is you can do it anywhere.  (It’s not so easy on a bus or in the shower, but the ideas still come.)  The writing nook is in my head.