K. Marvin Bruce

  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...

Writing is all about habit.   I recently moved house and with the move I somehow left my old writing habits behind.   Or so it seems.   The fact is I’ve had two non-fiction book assignments in a row and my true love has had to wait. My house didn’t come with a writing nook.   It was a tough market this year and finding some kind of suitable domicile before my apartment lease was up proved a trick for which I wasn’t prepared.   I thought there would be lots of choices, but instead it was catch as catch can.   Writing nooks weren’t in this year. Still, my usual chair was still available and I settled in to try my morning writing.   I had a story accepted for publication—the first time in over a year—and I realized that what I was missing was the drawing in of new material.   I need to see how other people live. There’s a bar within walking distance.   A trendy one that serves only local brews.   There I noticed the be...

Jo March had her red cap (before such things were tainted) and writing nook.   Those of us who write also have our habits.   Thing is, circumstances change. For the first time in over a decade I’m moving house.   Most specifically, I’m moving from an apartment into a house.   I’ll keep my day job, but I’ll be telecommuting—whatever that is.   Here in my apartment I awoke very early in order to accommodate public transportation.   My writing time has been very early. Weekends have taught me that sleeping in disrupts writing.   Indeed, my freshest time is way before dawn.   My mind is sharp and alert.   I’m productive.   I’m energetic.   I’m also not as young as I used to be.   One of my more self-indulgent activities is to allow myself to sleep until 5 a.m. on a Saturday. I wake up groggy, uninspired.   I sit down to write, weary already.   Only with great effort can I shove the pen.   I real...