I went to Ikea and picked out a compact yet, large modern corner style desk in white. It was my first piece of furniture that wasn’t black or espresso and I wanted the desk in white specifically so that it would symbolize a blank canvas, or to be exact to my art, a white sheet of paper.
I got a cork board to post up photos of character muses, motivational quotes, and souvenirs from Europe (where I felt so much inspiration) and organized it all together just so, so that it could face me while I wrote and I chose it to be right in front of me at eye level, for the moments I would get distracted, or hit a road block and be able to look up, see it and be inspired.
It was set up in my den, where unfortunately, my Italian Greyhound’s pee pads were housed. In a closeted area of the den, we named his designated toilet area, “Enzo’s shit room.”
The smell was distracting, to say the least. And my pain in the ass spoiled dog has a nasty habit of waiting until his pee pads are freshly changed to go ahead and lift a leg up or decide now was a good time as any to take a dump.
I decided to move the crisp, white desk to my bedroom. I have plenty of space without feeling overcrowded. Let’s not forget to mention the amount of natural lighting in my room! And best of all, when I felt my eyes getting heavy from looking at a computer screen for too long, my lush king sized bed with the best fucking mattress ever was right at my disposal for a mid day nap. Score!
Finally, I found writer’s peace.
And then my husband was given a company laptop, large screen monitor, personal printer, and was scooted out of his office to work from home instead.
And guess where he set up camp?
For his real job.
My white, inspirational, motivational, blank canvas. My white sheet of paper.
So fuck it, I thought, and write at the high top dinning table when the dishes are all cleaned and won’t make me twitch in hysteria.
I write in my balcony when the Miami weather is fresh. Which, it’s May now, so the balcony writing days are o.v.e.r. (It was nice while it lasted.)
Or I write at Starbucks or Panera around the corner of my house.
What I learned in the whole displacement experience, and having everything just so- only to be occupied by someone else and I’ll be honest- the hubby and I cannot share a desk. We just can’t. I learned that being a writer is freaking convenient, because I can write anywhere. As long as I have mood music.
It’s being able to write anytime that is the real pressing issue!