When we moved to Big Grove in 1993, the lower level of our split foyer home was unfinished. It remains so and may never be other than a storage area for extras from lives past — ours and our deceased relatives. As we age, we make a life in the upper level and cobwebs form over the boxes and piles filling the space below.
At some point, I don’t remember when, I took a nine by 12 corner of the lower level, installed a wall, a doorway and bookshelves on all four walls. In the middle of the room is a library table that came from my father-in-law’s estate. That is where I write. I don’t know if it is a productive place, but I’m used to it. I’ve produced a lot of words here.
My writing table is quiet, temperature controlled, and mostly dry. One time the gutters and downspout were blocked by leaves. Water came pouring down outside my window, seeping into my space. My design of having everything elevated off the cement floor proved its efficacy. It is presently a comfortable, safe place.
I used to carry a laptop around the house with me for writing. I’m over that. I’ve found it’s helpful to use a desktop in a stationary location.
What do I want to write about? That’s the better question after a place to write has been established. I’m not sure.
Whatever it is, I’ll do some tweaking of my workspace this holiday season and come out writing January first. What else am I going to do?