Finding My Place
I was always sure I could be an excellent writer, if I just had a writing room of my own.
I knew exactly what I needed. A cosy room in a quiet cottage, with an old wooden desk, a lamp and a more up to date computer. It would need to be a big desk, with room for my printer and space to lay stuff out instead of grubbing for it in a drawer – plenty of notebooks and pots of pens and paperclips, with room for a glass of Diet Coke and some sandwiches to keep me going.
Of course, I’d need a filing cabinet with neatly-labelled drawers for all my folders of research and half-read copies of Writing Magazine. Cupboards for my stationery items: stacks of printer paper in different colours, spare ink, ring binders, padded envelopes, all that sort of thing.
Then perhaps some shelves for ornaments that inspire me and a bookcase for all my books about how to be a writer. There do seem to be rather a lot of those, but of course, you have to learn some skills first if you’re going to be a writer.
Only… I’ve got my cottage now.
I have the writing room, with a big wooden desk, a new laptop, a filing cabinet, cupboards, shelves, bookcase… everything is ready, poised expectantly for me to create my magnum opus.
Perhaps… I don’t know… perhaps it’s too ready.
Perhaps having all the things I’ve always wanted is just putting pressure on me to create when my ideas are not fully formed. I mean, I don’t want to rush it. There’s still so much more planning to do before I can really get started.
And actually, now I think about it, what I really need is a treehouse. A snug little wooden treehouse with a yellow door and green slate roof, nestled in the branches of an old oak tree, swaying gently as the breezes blow. I’d definitely get some writing done there.
It’s all about finding the right place, you see.
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