NOTES on. writing // a place to be

Back at my computer I realise how much I'm missing a dedicated space to write and resolve to create a new corner or creativity soon, bringing to mind writing rooms that have gone before

As I begin the first pages of my next book my mind automatically drifts to places where I have written prior works, new sentences laid reminding me of the ones that went before. The times I was exactly at this stage in another volume but within another environment, on the bed, end of the lounge/TV room, at the kitchen table, outside in the garden, in the car, in numerous cafes, in a short-lived shared space, finally in a writing studio of my own, and then back to square one, almost – as I now find, myself, at the foot of a sofa bed masquerading as a bed I have been sharing with my kids, with a laptop on my knee.

What joins all these experiences is the urge to write, and that feeling you get when the words just flow. Also the feeling you get when it doesn’t quite work out, beholden to the emotional and financial triggers that sometimes keep you captive and unable to find your rhythm. In which case, does it really matter where you write as the yin and yang of writing will happen anyway?

I would argue that environment does make a difference but that in times of hardship, you will get by. There’s nothing better than having a dedicated space to write, one where you can set up various rituals that serve to cushion and enhance the process: a cup of saffron tea from a glass teapot for the first words of the day, a bowl of fruit and yogurt after a few hours of solid key tapping has been done, a stroll around the garden to smell the roses as a mid-afternoon pick-me-up, a glance at collected paraphernalia and artworks placed randomly or just so, windows flung open to let the fresh air and sunshine in, doors shut to keep out the howling wind or the incessant rain.

I had one of these such spaces for about a year, one that was supposed to last many years, be that room of one’s own. It still stands and having visited my neighbour is now furnished with a comfy looking sofa , a table, and objects on my bookshelves that catch the beautiful light that flows through stable doors and round window. My writing must be done elsewhere and true to an almost carnal need to string words into sentences, continue it does.

Elsewhere is not as comfortable, easy to keep batteries charged, or just get up and get going but perhaps there’s an edge and expression that can’t be cultivated in the somewhere. At what other point other than through sheer necessity would I take a deck chair and my laptop up to Wanstead Flats just to get a few hundred words down away from building works and by proxy in the fresh air and immersed in nature? Or sit in my car, during a rainstorm, keyboard propped against the steering wheel while nursing a cuppa from Wanstead Park tea hut. I know i’ll remember these times just as keenly as the days in the kind of writing rooms we all dream about.

As my unexpected damp-proofing project comes to its final few weeks and I start to get a semblance of a kitchen and garden back again, I’m looking forward to finding a regular spot again. I’m sure I’ll settle happily into a new old routine again but part of me will know so much more keenly that bricks and mortar will always be somewhat temporary, whether you own them or not, while the ideas and artworks you craft within them can last for eternity. Ownership, after all, is only ever truly about memories. And memories are often all the better for writing them down.