I have always prided myself for ability to write wherever I find myself – a bustling coffee shop, the middle of a crowded train station, or a tranquil hideaway.
And, this in part is still true as is evident by my writing this post while sitting in a bus station. Even though I am flexible and have the ability to write in most places, I find myself increasingly yearning for an office as a home base. This probably is a result of having been without an office for about eighteen months. My home office was turned into a bedroom for my nephew and even though he moved out about six months ago, I still have not turned that room back into an office. I keep promising myself that I will clean and set up my office again. Yet, I somehow never find time to do it even after I resolve to dedicate fifteen minutes per day to getting it done. Still no progress.
I have a bit of a a saboteur’s streak in me – self-saboteur that is. There is a part of me that recognizes I need a room of my own in order to write. And, yet there is a bigger part of me that allows me to keep getting in my own way.
Yes, Virginia, a girl needs a room of her own if she is going to write. And, money doesn’t hurt either.