I hated that book. There I said it.
But the premise of a space was not completely lost on me. Space has always been the thing that alluded me. Often it felt like one giant excuse I used to not take the leap and go all-in for my dreams. But the truth is for a decade now I have moved around and until this moment had not exactly found a suitable working space. For some artists they can and will work anywhere, that’s how deeply their art and creativity calls to them.
But space for me because of my mental health has always been the thing that impeded me. Sharing flats with rude roommates, apartments with no sun, spaces with creepy crawlies that kept the nightmares coming, or my stints with my parents where the TV never turned off. All of these made it easier to binge watch Murder She Wrote and dream of being a writer than actually write.
I now have a large picture window to look out of as I plot. It faces trees and rooftops, and in the winter the smoke flows from the snow-covered chimneys. It is a space I never would have dreamed of having and finding it felt serendipitous. That is until it was the only place I was allowed to go for a year. Writing in this large space I get to call my own has consistently been a struggle. Sounds utterly and horrifically selfish. But I can only speak my truth.
If I had my way I would have an actual nook or better an office.
Here I could line the walls with notes, timelines, characters, and inspiration as I create. This space would be where I close the door and the rest of the world falls away.
It’s difficult at times to create in the same place you also rest and eat and sleep. The walls start to feel like they are closing in on you for there is no differentiation of work, of creating, and everyday life. Of course, I can persevere. This space I have now, unlike the others, allowed me to soar in unexpected ways just as it cradled me in my darkest moments.
The large window to the outside, the fact that it is more than one room, both make a huge difference. The sun rises in my bedroom and sets through my living room. I am surrounded by birds singing to one another and the quiet that comes from living outside of a city. This space has given me so much even if it isn’t perfect. Proof of that is me being a perfectly broken record by telling you, again, I wrote a book. I wrote a book, in the throes of a pandemic that took away my work, my financial stability which caused a deep dark depression for months on end, in a space of my very own.
Space for many of us is everything
It cannot be compartmentalized. For as many that loved home office this past year, just as many itched to have a clear separation of their home and work life. It is’t always about shutting down your computer or moving to the bedroom. The space we live in, work in, create in, all of it brings out something different within us. We breathe easier knowing our living space is not also doubling as the shipping center, painting area, and dining area.
I am still sorting out how I work best under the ongoing circumstances. But I delight in the light and that I have no one to answer to but myself. I can write and create in whichever corner I want and that for the moment is enough to keep me going.