When I see other writers’ rooms I don’t get jealous. Honestly, I don’t. When I see the antique desks with the freshly cut flowers, the appropriate vintage décor, framed photos of book covers and wonderful views of countryside through lovely bay windows I never get envious. Despite being a published writer with an agent, a book deal and everything you think will change your life completely, but doesn’t quite so much, I don’t have a writers room. I am a roomless writer. Writer sans room.
So when I was asked to write an article about my writing room, the first thing I did was go online and search some pictures of writing rooms I liked the look of – see exhibit A. This is the room I’d like to write in. Look at it. It’s gorgeous. It’s light and airy, there’s a spacious wooden desk with appropriate vintage décor, flowers, a countryside view through a lovely window and there’s even a cute little dog. I like dogs and he seems like the sort of dog who would lie there quite happily while I work and maybe in winter he’d lie over my feet to keep them warm. Yes, this room would be perfect.
The next thing I did was take a photo of my actual writing space – see exhibit B. It’s the end of a sofa. There’s some nice floral cushions, a potted plant and I have space for a cup of tea. What’s wrong with it? Nothing. It’s fine. Yes it isn’t that comfortable, there isn’t a view and it isn’t technically a room, but it’s fine. It works. I’ve written two novels from that end of the sofa…but. There’s always a but, isn’t there. It isn’t what I imagined when I thought of myself as an author. I imagined myself in exhibit A or at least something like that.
Lastly, just to make sure you completely understand the difference between the reality and the dream, I popped on Photoshop and did this – see exhibit C. The dream is a lovely, aesthetically pleasing space that oozes creativity. The reality is I write on the end of the sofa. One day I’ll have my dream – or at the least something similar – and then who knows what I’ll be able to produce. I picture myself sitting at the desk, surrounded by beauty, the smell of freshly cut grass and flowers wafting in through the window, a cup of tea on the palatial desk and maybe even a dog. Why not a dog.