It was Virginia Woolf who said, a woman should have a place of her own to write fiction in. I have several places I try to write in, but none my own. Read on.
I have two offices. One in my house that I share with my husband and the other one is my car. I spend as much time there as I do at home. I’m a taxi driver of sorts. I have two children. Need I say more? Since I’m Italian, I’m short. That means I have to sit close to the steering wheel to reach the pedals. Have you ever tried typing with your elbows under your arm pits? It’s like I’m tyrannosaurus author.
I’m not sure my office at home is much better. I have more arm room, thankfully, and a desk to spread out on, but I don’t like sharing the space when my husband is working at home. He gets on the phone and uses the speaker! Hello, sitting right next to you. Creative juices warming up here. I shove earbuds in, turn up the Pandora, and guess what? I can still hear him. And worse, the person he’s talking to. Sometimes its a conference call! I mean, really?
I’ve gone into the kitchen where it’s quieter, but instantly I’m loading the dishwasher. You should see me in action. I rearrange juice glasses like nobody’s business. I amaze myself. Who knew there was a talent in putting flatware into those little slots? You need your master’s degree to figure out the forks should go in tongs down as not to get caught on the bottom rack when it rolls out. Loading the dishwasher is an art form.
Okay, I’ve ruled out three writing spaces so far. If the temperature is above 75 degrees, I can go outside, but I don’t live in Florida so that rules out most of the months of the year. I certainly can’t write in the bathroom. I know Stephen King locked himself in the bathroom to write when he first started out, but I’ll just want to clean. No windows in the basement. Another place off the list. What space is left?