In our old house, I had a spot, in my cave in the finished part of the basement, with a very comfortable easy chair I’d gotten from my mom when she got a new chair. That was where I always wrote, something like 2,500 stories and about 1,000 poems over a 7 year period. In that chair, I was surrounded by little tables on either side, and a trunk beside the table on the one side, all of which always had piles of books, cups full of pens, pencils, markers, and other items of utility and interest.
Since we moved, I haven’t settled on a definite spot, just yet. I have an office in the basement, but it’s too cluttered and feels claustrophobic, with no windows and all the clutter, and I don’t have a comfortable chair in there, yet. I’ve tried writing in other parts of the finished basement, but nowhere down there feels quite right, yet.
Where I’ve done the most writing in our 2 1/2 months here is in what was once the master bedroom of the house, where I sit as I write this. (We use the new, larger master bedroom in the addition that was built a couple years ago, for our bedroom). This is where I keep all my clothes, and use the shower, and has just evolved to be my favorite place to write, so far, as well.
This room has the bed that was my mother’s growing up, along with matching dressers, one wide and shorter, one taller and narrower. It also has the very large Gibraltar scene oil painting that my great aunt Marie painted in 1890, although it still sits on the floor up against the wall upon which I will eventually hang it.
I guess I feel close to my family in this room. I sit in another reclining chair we got from my mom’s house after she passed, a much smaller but kind of comfortable chair, with the tall dresser to my right and a little behind me, and the short dresser kind of in front of me, off to the right, as well.
I generally have books piled to the left of the chair, a mug of coffee or other drink sitting on the floor beside me to the right, and then there’s a little 3-drawer piece of furniture that sits in front of, and a little to my left, that also usually has books on it. The spot needs a little work, but I haven’t allowed myself to get too settled into it yet, because I know my wife would prefer I find a spot downstairs — like the office. Maybe once I declutter it, it won’t be quite as claustrophobic to me. For now, though, here I write.
