Where do I write?
As many writing junkies confess, I’ve literally written anywhere the muse beckoned; with, and on anything. From predictable—fountain pen journal scribing while traveling or keyboarding at my desk— to capricious—eyeliner stroking on bar bathroom toilet paper, or lipstick scrawling on a fine dining tablecloth.
I’ve written with my blood and metaphorically, the blood of others; on crisp lined paper and worn bed sheets; at my adult haunts and in childhood’s haunting places.
Fortunate today with several consistent spaces, I’m less inclined to indulge impulsive jargon-jotting. Trusty iPhone voice memos temper former impulse to scrawl illegibly on unreliable surfaces. Youth’s impatient impulse now relies on laptop and legal pad; their portability suit my life style, whether home in Pennsylvania, traveling to distant family or retreating to my favorite getaway, Maine.
At home, I set up shop in my bedroom or make-shift study. Most days I’m self-sequestered in the later; it’s actually one of three spare bedrooms. A coveted leather-top mahogany writing desk welcomes my outpourings. The room also doubles as a sewing/craft space when my need for tactile creativity rises.
Four identically sized windows—3 feet wide by nearly 6 feet tall—adjoin a second-story porch overlooking perennial gardens I sculpted and tended when hubby and I moved here 10 years ago. A small plot of private towering woods stretches beyond. Leaded glass panes refract daylight in glowing grandeur from dawn till mid-afternoon. Meandering cracks mimic my mind across sea-foam green walls. The mood is warm and welcoming, sturdy and safe, bright and inspiring.
Austerely opposite, the bedroom is a man-cave. After particularly distracting or harrowing days I’ll retire early, rolling the bedside tray table above my lap to supper in bed while key-stroking. Hubby’s reclusive habits prefer perpetual shade-drawn environs, a dim and dreary muse-killer for my otherwise outgoing self. I enriched it with strié glazed walls and floor-length, tassel-laden silk Shantung draperies. The result tantalizes my senses; windows shimmer in ball-gown billows and plaster blushes under incandescent lamp light. A faux Russian Sable fur throw adds satisfying sensual flair.
When I pry myself from life’s reality, I escape to Maine where retreat is noun, and verb. A rustic 1940’s bunk house—my writing sanctuary—comprises 1 of 3 small structures on the tiny island. Within its few walls a simple folding camp desk and wrought iron chair await writing’s fervor. The exposed wood interior wafts heady pine, tickling my nose in childhood memory of my Grandmother’s hunting lodge-turned-cherished home. Lapping round a thousand feet of circling shore, the lake affords 360’ views of nature’s ever-changing wonder.
Today I’m blessed to write in several cozy and inspiring spaces, with traditional pen to paper or dependable Dell. But that doesn’t mean I won’t scribble crayon on my heirloom hanky in a pinch; when the muse strikes, it’s all fair game.