I took this photo this morning to show you (again) how Charlie likes be near me when I write. It’s a remarkable picture of a house chicken but it’s also a remarkable picture of a writer’s spot.
Yup, I’m a slob, but in my defense, so is my family.
And it doesn’t help that I’ve moved my writing spot from a desk on the third floor (where there are enough skylights to heat up the area like an Easy-Bake oven) for the cooler and quieter spot I created by hauling a comfy chair into the back corner of our mudroom. Seriously, I write now in a chair with my laptop on a lap table – my back is soon going to start protesting too much.
The problem with a mudroom is that it becomes a catch-all for all of the family’s cast-offs.
Winter over? Throw the boots, ski equipment, and helmets into the mudroom, mom will take care of them.
Soccer season over? You know where to throw the (often deflated) soccer balls, cleats, and the one shin guard that didn’t break. Mom’s there, she’ll put it away.
The thing is when you write, your mind is taken elsewhere. You follow dreams, catch snippets of memories, and create the possibilities of adventures. You don’t see the clutter, the mess, the long-broken promises that things will be put away.
What you do see is a friend, appreciative of your craft, who is willing to overlook the clutter so that she can lend you her muse and undying support.
