Virginia Woolf told us that writers need a room of their own, but she didn't tell us what to do if we lost the perfect room. For five years because of my husband's job I lived in Ames, Iowa, in an older two-story house with perfect space for a writer: a room with two large windows and even a door to a second-floor deck that extended my work space in the summer. I loved this writing space. Large oak, basswood, and maple trees filtered the sun's glare in the summer and invited the warm rays in the winter.
And talk about room. There was space for my desk AND bookcases AND filing cabinets AND a large storage closet.
It was a writer's paradise. It was my first official room-of-my-own writing space. It was the place where I decided to throw out my shingle as a full-time freelance writer and editor, after keeping a day job in higher education for many years.
The office even became a metaphor for the idea that life might pleasantly surprise me even though I may not want go where it wants to take me.
And talk about room. There was space for my desk AND bookcases AND filing cabinets AND a large storage closet.
It was a writer's paradise. It was my first official room-of-my-own writing space. It was the place where I decided to throw out my shingle as a full-time freelance writer and editor, after keeping a day job in higher education for many years.
The office even became a metaphor for the idea that life might pleasantly surprise me even though I may not want go where it wants to take me.
Now I'm in another house, in another town, again courtesy of my husband's job. I am not so friendly with my office, here. It is dark and cold, especially in the winter, and the windows are small and high. I don't yet know what this office has to teach me, don't yet know to fully trigger the muse. I'm trying hard to listen.
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