I am fortunate. I have my own room on the second floor of my house where I write. It is small but with built in bookcases and full of light. Two windows face east and three more face south. From this room, I can watch everything from the neighborhood to the wildlife around me. If feels like I am in my own treehouse.
Last year I was not happy with the way my room looked. It was messy and I was tired of the furnishings.
It has to be creative. After all I will be writing there, I told myself as if the room itself gave me my inspiration.
So I redecorated. I painted, bought a desk, hung new art on the wall. It looks nice. I like it but…
It came to me that no matter what I did to my room, it would still be messy if I was truly working. Paper drafts thrown in one corner. Art projects in other piles. It is really part of the creative process.
Which brings me back to the purpose of the room. Whether the room is messy or that “perfect studio” in my mind, it is the place where I write. And that is what I must do.
And really, I don’t need a special place to write in. At times, I write in coffeeshops, libraries, on buses, and in parks. Often the creative muse shows up when I least expect it and not always in my spiffy new writing room. I am reminded of Stephen King writing Carrie on his kitchen table.
What I need to remember is not that I have a room of my own. All I really need is a pen and a piece of paper and the space to write wherever and whenever I can.
Let the words fall as they may.
And to listen to that small but persistent voice that keeps whispering in my ear, “ Write, Robin. Just write.”