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?
* * *
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.
