Friday, July 27, 2012

My writing space



My wedding dress was the first one I pulled off the rack. Yes, I tried on several and went to multiple stores. But I came back to the dress that stole my breath… the first one.

My house was the same way. We sifted through hundreds online and narrowed it down twenty or so. The first one we toured, we walked in and clutched each other with wide eyes. It was perfect. And then the realtor opened a door to what I assumed would be a walk-in cabinet off the kitchen. Instead, it was a rec room filled with ugly sofas and a television. But my husband pointed at the outside wall. A FIREPLACE. The realtor left us alone in that room and my husband grabbed my hand. “You could write in here,” he said. There wasn’t even a question that the room would be mine if the house became ours.

We visited numerous houses for sale following that one, but we kept driving by the first one we had seen. And we eventually beat off the contract it was under and bought it for ourselves.

Since then, I have painted the room walls (three are yellow and one is blue), replaced the carpet with hardwood flooring, and added my own furnishings. My friends say it looks like a psychiatrist’s office with the chaise lounge and the huge desk. I tend to agree.

My writing space is fantastic all year round, but my favorite time to write is on a cold winter evening. The fire is crackling merrily. I am wrapped in a blanket, pecking away at a scene while my dog cozies down in my lap. Bagpipes play softly in the background. I sip hot mulled wine. Comforting smells waft from the adjacent kitchen. And my characters truly come alive in my mind.

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