It’s not exactly a palace.
But it’s a step up from the pit. With a penthouse view. Where I can look down on the fields.
I used to work in the dungeon. The furnace room. In the basement. Where I could look up at some face staring at me. A possum. A woodchuck. A raccoon. A skunk. Or a cat. Some critter that sought refuge under our porch. Nose pressed to window. Only one made it inside, though. King Kobe.
Now I work two floors up. In the room where my son slept for 20-plus years. In the room where my husband slept for 20-plus years. At the top of the house. On the north side of this 150-plus-year-old farmhouse. Where it gets cold in the winter and hot in the summer. Where the floor slopes just so, so that I often have to hook my leg around the desk leg when I work to keep from rolling out the door and down the stairs.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
But it’s mine. All mine! A real writing studio. I’m on top of the world.
And I don’t need to worry about looking up to see a face out the window. I only have to worry about jumping out the window if my heater or fan or ‘puter or another of my many electrical devices catches fire. Or if someone sneaks up behind me while I’m engrossed in my writing world.
There’s a bit more clutter here than you’d expect given the dump truck mentality I’ve described in my other blog. But almost everything has some meaning and provides inspiration.
Let me take you on a brief tour. Or not so brief.