Rooms of My Own

Virginia Woolf will be remembered for many things, but for me, the essay “A Room of One’s Own” is her crowning glory. And while I know that Woolf is speaking of “room” in both its literal and metaphorical sense, I can’t help but breathe a “thank you” to Virginia every time I sit in my home office and begin writing.

It’s not big, this room of my own, maybe twelve by twelve, one hundred and forty-four square feet. There’s a desk, and a loveseat, and a coffee table that belonged to my grandmother. There are old bookshelves that belonged to a great-uncle, plus file cabinets and wastebaskets and three original works of art that were gifts from people I love. I have rocks and crystals everywhere — baskets and bowls of gem clusters and river stones, citrine and calcite on the windowsill, a labradorite paperweight, a selenite crystal ball.

The desk sits right in front of the window overlooking my front yard. It’s an eastern view, so the rising sun illuminates my work area with hazy rose gold light. Right now, it’s on the cusp of spring here. The calamondin orange tree gives off a dizzying scent; the brown spent leaves fall from the live oak, making way for new growth. Soon the green will get brown-edged and crispy with the broil-and-bake temperatures that are coastal Georgia summers. But for now, all is moist and vernal and misty-gray in the morning. 

As you can probably tell, my room of my own has to be a room with a view. I recently read another author’s blog post on how much writing she got done in a boring room with nothing to distract her from her task. But I am not such a creature. I write best when my eyes have something to feast on while my brain chugs along (my brain itself requires caffeine, but that’s another story).

One of my best writing afternoons was spent in Colorado Springs when I snuck away from the Left Coast Crime festivities and hunkered down in my room with hot chocolate on the nightstand and a dazzling snowscape through the balcony window. As a child of the South, I was stunned and delighted by all the white stuff, and found the creative engine stoked by a view I never get at home. 

At the other extreme, I found the desert sands of Scottsdale to be just as inspiring. I was there during a spell of rainy weather that had the temperature hovering in the low sixties instead of the predicted nineties, so I replaced my planned umbrella drink with yet another hot chocolate. Luckily, the desert has a gravitas and bigness that opens up new vistas in the imagination, regardless of temperature.

 One of my most memorable writing rooms was mobile—the sleeper compartment on the Amtrak train from Savannah, Georgia to Albany, New York. I spent that 22-hour trip working with an ever-changing view, happily sequestered in a tiny, moveable space all to myself (and with a dining car two doors down – I cannot begin to tell you how much my productivity increases when someone else takes care of the cooking).

I’m curious about the rooms of your own — what does your fantasy writing space look like? Care to share?

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Tina Whittle writes the Tai Randolph/Trey Seaver mysteries. The sixth book in this Atlanta-based series—Necessary Ends—is available now. Tina is a proud member of Sisters in Crime and has served as both a chapter officer and national board member. Visit her website to follow her on social media, sign up for her newsletter, or read additional scenes and short stories: www.tinawhittle.com.