For some reason I derive a great deal of comfort from sitting near my books. Maybe it is because I am alone and in a contemplative mood, or maybe it is just because I find the accumulated wisdom soothing.
In contrast, when I sit at my pretty little writing desk I usually feel quite uncomfortable. Perhaps it is because it is in a corner of our large dinning room (in our poorly designed apartment), or perhaps I have unconsciously attached too many of my fears about writing to it.
Ultimately, when we move again, I would like to have a room of my own, to paraphrase Virginia Woolf. It would be a quiet place where my writing desk could be in close proximity to my books, as well as a place where my cross stitch supplies and Tarot cards could co-mingle freely. In other words, it would be a room in which I could nurture my soul.
Until then, I learn to adjust and love my writing desk anyway.
Needleworker, Knitter, Crocheter, Sewist, Cricuteer, and more!
Ah, that room sounds like heaven. I think we all need something like that.
A room of one’s own, and the 500 pounds per annum Woolf also insisted was necessary to allow a woman to write. And that was decades ago, so adjust for inflation, and we’ll say, oh, a minimum of around $17K? I think we’d ll feel a lot freer to write what we felt like writing, or what we needed to write, if we had that room and that financial security.