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I've written in many places in my lifetime: at the island in the kitchen as dinner simmers on the stove, on my dining room table before the dishes have been cleared away, in coffee shops, on the front porch in the mornings, in a journal on a cruise ship, on my daughter's couch with a newborn grandbaby in one arm ... and the list goes on. I can write anywhere. But I would say my most creative work happens when and where I can be solitary and uninterrupted. That place is at my desk in the early mornings.
Jane Austen wrote several novels on a portable mahogany writing desk which she placed on a small twelve-sided tripod table. This was in the dining room of the home she shared with her mom and sister. In the movie, Miss Austen Regrets, there's a compelling scene that takes place in this room. I don't know how true it is to Jane's life, but it depicts everything I feel when I am deep into writing and an interruption occurs.
In the scene, Jane is writing at her little desk when sister Cassandra comes in to set the table. Cassandra is being as quiet as one can be with clinking silverware and porcelain plates, but Jane is distracted from her writing. She doesn't move, save for lifting her pen from the page and holding it there until Cassandra leaves the room. Then she begins to write again. It's the action of someone who doesn't want to lose the thought, so she freezes in time to hold onto it until the distraction is done. How I resonate with that! I need quiet, with no interruptions.
I'm pretty sure I'm writing all the time. I'm certainly observing with writing in mind, even when I don't realize I'm doing it.
The way the cashier tucks her hair behind her ear becomes the quirk of a secondary character. Questions my grandkids ask turn into what-ifs. How a certain word rolls off the tongue in the middle of a conversation with the piano tuner fills the blank in my manuscript. It's all fodder.
But the actual sit-down-work-at-my-computer writing happens at home in my favourite room. For years I'd dreamed of this space. It had to be big enough to embrace my quilting, my own library, and a spacious writing desk. This dream was finally realized four years ago when I entered my sixties.
The walls are painted Woodlawn Blue, with trim in Cloud White. Large windows on two walls face north and east, letting in golden sunrises and lots of light. Wafting breezes billow the lace curtains. If that sounds idyllic, it is, even when quilting projects clutter the sewing table and resource books crowd my desk. It's a place where I can close the door if I need to, when I don't want to be interrupted. My best work happens here. It's my sacred space.
I come here in the mornings, when the light shining through the windows sweeps the bookshelves with a golden pink glow and tiptoes across the floor into the living room beyond. The only distractions come from outside: birds chirping in season, our neighbour's rooster cock-a-doodling, the odd coyote howling in the distance. However, these are less distractions than they are reminders that God is over all. It's here, in this sacred space, where I feel His pleasure when I write.
Jane Austen might have wished for a more private place to write, at a proper desk with an ergonomic chair. But maybe not. After all, she managed to write seven novels that have remained popular for over two hundred years, mostly on a little twelve-sided table. Would she have considered that her sacred space?
I finished this post on my granddaughter's tenth birthday, in my daughter's bright living room. At times it was noisy and chaotic with excitement. So yes, I can write anywhere, but I do write best at home, in my sacred space of Woodlawn Blue.
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Feature Photo from Pixabay
