One Writer’s Home
In my early writing days, I produced scenes, chapters, whole books with my legal pad propped on the wheel of a (stationary) car, while one child or another was involved in soccer practice or a piano lesson. Later, when the kids were in school longer hours and this odd hobby of mine began (to the astonishment of everyone, not in the least me) producing an income, I first claimed a room, then built one: not for me the tumult of social interactions, active families, and loud music assaulting my concentrating brain.
Then two years ago I moved house, and since the new place had a number of…issues, structurally speaking, a study for Laurie was pretty far down the list of urgent tasks. So this is where I wrote The Bones of Paris: A large, comfortable, perfectly round chair (loveseat?) in one corner of the bedroom, where I could hear the hammers, saws, and conversations (my beloved contractor and his guys, bless them, don’t inflict their clients with on-the-job radio) but not be too distracted by them. Meanwhile, my future study was the garage, a mountain of boxes, bits of furniture, unclaimed household odds and ends, and junk too valuable to throw out quite yet:
But eventually, the roof was patched, the underpinnings of the house were secured, and we could turn our attentions to my place of work. The guys, working around the boxes, fitted in shelves, and bit by bit, the books migrated from boxes to shelves:
I ended up with a proper study (the carpet is dark purple!):