I like to think that writing where I live has allowed me to let more of life into my writing.
I try to be agnostic about where I write; I never have an excuse to not.
I’m afraid I have always been like this: always doing slightly more than I can handle, stealing moments to get it all done.
“I blame my first studio apartment for my habit of writing in kitchens.”
The room is my Narnia wardrobe, my Woolfian fantasy writ real, a masc womb of creative independence. I call the room The Lair because who wouldn’t.
The hotel front desk bell was a gift from my fiancé, who gave it to me to ring every time I hit my daily word count goal for my first book.
Only now does my office feel like my home again. Only now does my body feel like my home again.
The space that anchored me through a year of the pandemic, a safe harbor, feels too claustrophobic now. I crave to be outside.
That’s what my own process of writing, and living, is like: trying to conserve, redirect, and restore my energy in the most fruitful way.
After a month of writing in the passenger seat of my Honda Fit, I said “fuck it” and started writing in the bathroom.
“After the success of my first book, I got caught up with ambition and worked to produce. Writing shouldn’t really be like that.”
It’s my childhood desk, which I began using again after my father passed away and we moved in with my mother.
Even though I sometimes have a hard time waking up, my favorite part of the day is still early morning.
It’s the kind of desk I thought I’d have when I figured everything out. It’s a desk I’ve been waiting to earn.
I find that stories tend to unlock themselves when looked at indirectly, so I’m always searching for ways to engage my conscious mind and take pressure off the page.
Yes, that is a wine fridge under my desk.
Before, this room was full of books, a reading chair, plants. Now we’ve got a crib, a changing table, a glider. I’ve kept my desk, though.
The three Polaroids that hang by my desk are from different parts of the story, but it helps to have them nearby.
My desk has to hold all the different versions of me, the good days and the bad. So far, it has.
By necessity, my workspace must be extremely versatile (much more versatile than my boudoir life I might add)
What kind of story would you like to write?
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