The Write Space: Three Tips to Create a Writing Habitat
February 19, 2017
February 19, 2017
Everyone needs their own sanctuary for solitude. Or maybe that’s what serial killers always say…
Either way…whether it’s the token man cave, hammock in the backyard, or porcelain throne, your own space is important to foster creativity. As writers it’s one thing we can probably agree on. Also, for me, it’s what I need to survive and be successful. I’m not speaking monetarily here in terms of success; success of the soul and the imagination.
I am the structured, stubborn soul who cannot focus on writing if I am not in my office. Sure, I can scribble on notepads at restaurants and during epic dance-offs, but I can never be that person who escapes to a beach or a soiled motel room to write their masterpiece. To really sit down and write my stories, to unleash crazy, I MUST sit my ass in my sweet, sweet, black, leathery chair with its grooved and familiar butt indentations.
I love to read about the writing habitats of famous authors. Oh, to have Thoreau’s cabin at Walden Pond. Virginia Woolf’s Monks House, Stephen King’s attic office in Maine (I mean, it’s obviously HAUNTED), Hemingway’s Key West Home…
I’ve had my little writing spot for nigh on nine years and here are a few tips I’ve learned to make it even more mine.
Easy right? PERSONALIZE THE MOTHERFUCK out of it. Whether odd, grandiose or plain, all writing spaces are special and everything should be done to make it your precious. Favorite books on the shelf, shrunken heads on display, cats asleep in chairs (c’mon, we’re all writers, we have ALL THE CATS), whiskey bottles in the trash.
And if you need to do that too, well, then, you do you. Minus the five hours a day I’m forced to interact with society, I pretty much live in my office. I eat meals, take phone calls, plan vacations. Living your life in there will endear it to you even more. Now this may not be your jam, but it works for me. Make it your home. Your pretty little lived-in safe space that you just can’t wait to get home to.
Seriously. Chase out the kid, the partner, and treat it like a drawbridge that cannot be scaled. This is your domain and, like many things in life (ahem), permission to enter must be granted.
For instance, my lair is a simple office nook in the downstairs of my home. It has no door and many strange macabre items and I friggin’ love. I hesitate to describe the style since my woman-brain cannot be trusted to decorate. But if my office were a Match.com profile it would read…
Sultry brick-orange walls, and a lone chocolate brown one scream for attention. If you like bookcases filled to the brim, a case of vinyl, a collection of arsenic bottles and a phrenology skull, then I’m for you. I have been known to host a red wine drinker who likes her music loud and her mouth full of swear words. I prefer to surround myself with photos that remind me of where I’ve been and things I have loved.
God, if that doesn’t turn you on, nothing will.
So, what’s in your office? Gin? Cigarettes? Voodoo dolls? Drop a note in the comments!