I write on my laptop, in a barricaded corner of the living room near the kitchen—eight feet from the coffee grinder and coffee maker—surrounded by instruments of creation, including my L-shaped desk that used to work in a bank. The remaining wires from the silent alarm were removed just prior to positioning the desk in my living room.
My laptop lives on the L of this desk, which is the perfect height for typing. I face a view of my back yard through a corner window. This isn’t the feng shui-approved placement for a desk, which would be the position of command, facing the door. I’ll keep my view, thank you. I watch the sky, trees, lizards and birds during idle moments. Brown towhees, scrub jays, mockingbirds, orioles, hummingbirds, house finches and black phoebes keep me company, occasionally upset by a marauding crow. Sometimes the dog sprawls behind my chair, blocking my exit.
Behind me a bulletin board evolves, over the course of a story, from holding photos, artwork, affirmations and bits of poetry, to a flurry of bright colored Post-It notes with clues and plot elements scribbled on them. I reposition these frequently during the last major edit, move them around so much the sticky strip wears off, which is why they go on a bulletin board with thumbtacks.
On the main part of the desk looms a PC, with two large monitors, configured to start in either Windows or Linux. My husband set this up for himself originally, so he could learn Linux. Now it’s where I back up my files. The laptop is my favorite writing tool. This one’s my second laptop. I wore out the first.
Though I own a great variety of pens and pencils, my second favorite writing tool is a pair of cheap green plastic Bic “Great Erase” 0.7 mm mechanical pencils. I haven’t been able to find any more exactly like them in the stores, so I’ve no idea what I’ll do when these wear out. They scribble journal entries, or notes about my current project. On slow days they jump-start my writing by working in longhand for a few paragraphs. Once the juices are flowing I switch to the laptop.
On the desk are my Palm Pilot, a cordless phone I rarely use, my digital camera and a Quan Yin lamp that used to belong to our friend next door who passed away. My writing corner holds three file cabinets, a bookcase full of books on writing, painting and whatever research topic feeds the current project, three boxes of my books, and the last four boxes of my mother’s things I haven’t yet decided what to do with. One is a box full of fabric, some of it hand-painted by her. A drafting table sits unassembled in its box, awaiting the space to set it up. I’ve tucked art supplies into corners, drawers and under the desk: paintbrushes, watercolors, color pencils, sketching pencils, sketchpads, watercolor paper, and even some polymer clay. These things are difficult to organize in a small space, so they’re always in flux. The art supplies are used too seldom, but they remain as a source of therapy. At times I grow feverish to paint, though I’m not very good at it. I like to be prepared. Besides, paint runs in my blood.
I’ve stashed my yarn, sewing supplies and needlework books in other parts of the house, along with two full shelves of cookbooks. I once dreamed about a little house set up for all my favorite pursuits, chock full of arty things, bits and pieces of color, a perfect place to play and work—a creativity cottage. I suppose I pursue this daily, in real life.
Sometimes I write in bed. I drafted this post in bed, with a green plastic pencil on a lined yellow pad. I keep a yellow pad in every room of the house.
I think the most important thing for any creative person is to be prepared. This isn’t just because I used to be a Girl Scout. We can work daily, on schedule, at making something out of nothing, but even then it’s the odd moments, the idle time that produces the most heated inspiration. I grew up in a house where creativity was encouraged and neatness played second fiddle to art. My mother, a quilter and painter, often kept her sewing machine on the dining table and a painting in progress on an easel beside it. This instant accessibility right in the midst of where we live may look messy, but it feels like home to me.
Where do you create? How do you prepare for artistic lightning strikes?
I keep a pencil and pad next to my bed - some of my best ideas and solutions happen in the nighttime. And if I don’t write them down, sometimes they’re just gone.
Your workspace sounds pretty nice.
I try so hard to keep my workspace uncluttered, but things seem to accumulate there. And then I move them and start over with a clean space.
Comment by cassie-b — May 7, 2005 @ 4:25 pm
As I type, I look around my office, a feng shui hodgepodge because at the very least, my desk is not facing the proper direction, and like Barbara, I prefer to gaze out my window, which captures a sweet snapshot of my backyard. Ten feet from the window is a pole of unknown origin or purpose. It sustains a tapestry of vegetation with founts of morning glory spilling to the ground. Deep inside the folds of green and purple reside several nests of birds – heretofore, I never realized birds lived communally.
If the breeze stirs just right, I can hear the distant whinny of horses and little goats with little goaty sounds. Several roosters also reside nearby and have no clue how to tell time. Like sonorous grandfather clocks, the roosters seem to yodel every hour on the hour. It’s perfect. So feng shui that!
My office is fairly civilized in an unorganized way. The walls are painted a deep rose, the ceiling a barely discernible light pink. It was a nursery for the previous owner’s infant daughter. I like the idea that it was once a nursery – a place of freshness, newness, promise, and lots of love scented with soft talc. My desk is a refractory table I refinished while my very own babies were napping thirty years ago. I found it in central Missouri in a ramshackle barn with an assortment of farm tools on its top, which ultimately gave the surface character, and a unique patina. The farmer had said, “That old thing, why you can have it for $25. Yup. Yup. Yup.” Barter was not yet in my vocabulary. I spent more on sandpaper. My desk is always in disarray, no matter how hard I try. It’s fairly utilitarian because I manage some of my husband’s business. To assuage his concerns, I organize on a sort of quarterly basis. But, on a moment’s notice, I can always locate what he needs, albeit I tear through the room like a threshing machine. He’s lucky I have a separate art studio.
Our house is graced by lots and lots of art. I collect. Everyday I spend some time with my discoveries and am utterly charmed. Consequently, my office has some of the collection – my blacks and whites – photos or pen and inks.
Several years ago I had a hip replacement. I delayed surgery as long as I could and used a cane. Shoot, if I had to use a cane, I was gonna have fun. I was just a kid at fifty-two, so I made my own. I eventually created about forty different designs. Many of my prototypes hang on the rod that used to have frilly nursery-type curtains. Let me give you an idea about my canes: one is covered with teeny tiny rubbery dogs. I called it ‘Life’s a Bitch.’ God, I had fun with those canes. (Barbara has been in my house so she knows it’s a wee bit eccentric and a living scrapbook.)
The floor of my office is always always in need of an extreme makeover. Works in progress are stacked, folders with research are stacked, books for research or pleasure are very stacked. Organized chaos.
On the wall behind me is a portrait painting of my mother. I can remember when she posed. I was six years old. The artist lived in an impossibly romantic bluff top house on the Long Island Sound. I can remember trying to navigate the bluff and falling. A nasty gash on my leg interrupted the posing session. The artist, Mary Rose Armstrong, bandaged my wound. She was so gentle. She smelled of scents that were new to me – paints and turpentine and mystery.
A memory returned today of life with mother. She redefined eccentricity. Yeah, yeah you all are groaning. Well, when I was around ten she asked if I wanted another pet. What kid doesn’t want another pet? I asked for chickens. She never once blinked, though no one in a radius of forty miles or more had chickens. I called them Chick-Chick and Cluck-Cluck. And I wonder why my writing career has stalled.
My mom’s house was the sort of place you could eat off the floor. I mean really eat food off the floor. In lieu of housekeeping, she had too much fun with her garden, or swilling martinis around the baby grand with her summer stock theatre friends. Her cigarette was propped in a skinny 12” ebony holder that she flailed like a baton as the group belted out Gershwin tunes. I adored her - still do. Her home was so real and wonderfully odd and alive. Years later I learned she was a high-functioning schizophrenic. But life was pretty much good crazy.
Barbara, as much as I like my office, I think yours sounds even niftier. Thanks for sharing and stirring a deluge of memories for me – especially on this Mother’s Day.
Comment by Reenie — May 8, 2005 @ 6:01 pm
Arghhhh. I forgot to mention that my dear mother diapered Chick-Chick and Cluck-Cluck so they could become house pets. Hence, eccentric.
Comment by Reenie — May 8, 2005 @ 9:17 pm
For a while, I had a room for each different pursuit. My office housed the computers. My current knitting/needlework projects lived on the ottoman by my big easy chair in the living room, and the rest waited their turn downstairs in the art room. The art room contained my drawing and sewing tables, inks, calligraphy pens, pastels, bookbinding supplies, the sewing machine, and all my paints. I moved the quilting frame into the sunroom to take advantage of all the light.
Then Greg moved in. He’s a classical composer, so he’s the real artist in the family. We have at least one keyboard instrument in every room of the house (except the bathroom… for now), plus the grand piano and the organ in the living room, and his computer and another piano in the office.
I guess if I had to identity a dedicated space for art in this house, it would be the whole house. This is not as delightfully funky in practice as it sounds in theory, but I’m keeping it.
Comment by blogdog — May 9, 2005 @ 4:07 pm
I guess I’ve turned my entire abode into a writing lair.
Comment by Vikk — May 11, 2005 @ 10:14 pm