I've envied the writer that gets to sit in the lovely chair or perch on the antique stool or nestle into the deep nest of pillows piled up against the wall.
I've pictured myself in the scene, gazing out the giant window or the quirky porthole, watching the ocean waves or the towering pines or the vast expanse of plains.
And then I remember something: I can't write in a writing space. I've tried.
I placed a desk in front of our west-facing window (that would be the one that frames the Rockies' Front Range). I've brought along my coffee (or, weather dictating, my glass of sweet tea). I've ceremoniously lit a candle, and ceremoniously reminded my lovely daughters what that means: when the candle is lit, Mama is writing. Hush, now.
On those ambitious writing-space days, in a matter of moments I'd find myself focused on the coffee (or tea); the lovely gardenia scent of the candle; the birds squabbling at the feeder, or the fox that created a den in the midst of a small cluster of pines out front.
I wanted the space I'd created to work for me. The desk was so lovingly chosen, so painstakingly sanded and stained (denim blue), and so intentionally placed. And it's now completely covered with the girls' beads, wires, cut-up t-shirts, markers, ribbons, and a fine dusting of kitty cats' fur.
Now, don't cry for me, dear reader. When it's time for me to write, I have found the perfect spot for me. I grab my laptop and head about four miles up the road to a family-owned coffee shop/cafe. It's small but hugely popular--in other words, it's loud. I can hear every word of every other customer if I'm nosy enough to listen, as well as the running conversation between the barista, the cashier, and the guy at the griddle. Depending on where I'm seated, I might be greeted or jostled by the local artisans that come in to restock the old wooden shelves with their house-made honey, their business cards, their wildlife photography, their forest-proud t-shirts.
It's fun to whittle away time looking at the lovely, cozy, simple or serious writing spaces of other authors. But I know me, and I know I don't belong in any of them. I've found my space. I love it and it loves me right back, rewarding me with words trickling from my fingers like water, filling up virtual pages with story and character and, often, a whole lot of drivel that I have to delete. But it's all writing, and it's all mine.
Anyway, who needs scented candles when coffee beans are roasting just a few feet away?