In our small 1950s California tract home, we have three
bedrooms—all pretty small. Two are
occupied and one is used for storage—extra food, paper towels, bedding,
suitcases, stacks of skateboards long unused.
It’s also where I have a desk.
Since returning from France, it has either been so cluttered I can’t sit
at my desk or we’ve had guests who use the room for sleeping purposes. Either way, it has been unavailable.
Last week, I was finally able to return to my little space
that I so enjoy. Like so many writers
who cannot do anything without their special paper or pen or music, it’s never
as easy to write anywhere other than that hidey hole. I am surrounded by photos of my family, a
watercolor we bought in a remote French village in Landes, my printer, my
stereo, my printer, and my dictionaries—French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese
and English.
Lest I believe, however, that just by virtue of returning to
the desk would make me prolific, I know that I’ll still have to work at
it. And work I will. Time to move on to books three and four. And in the meantime, I expect to post more here.
For those of you who feel the urge to create, I recommend
that you find your own little hidey hole—or studio, garage, workshop, sewing
room. And just do it!
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