The Myth of the Perfect Writing Space

(and the dangers of getting trapped there...)

Once upon a time in a hotel room, I created a makeshift desk out of an upended suitcase and some cardboard boxes rescued from the recycling bin. I worked on an all-in-one word processor, portable only in comparison to the room-filling mainframe computers of the day. With that set-up I was able to complete a [dreadful] novella as part of the 3-Day Novel Competition.

In this week’s journalling group we responded to a prompt that asked us to think about where we write and how that place helps shape who we are - as writers and as people.

Immediately, several related things came to mind. First, I was deeply grateful that I was sitting at my desk in my cozy office, a luxury I appreciate all the more because for decades I did not have such a great place to hole up and beaver away.

The prompt also reminded me of a piece I wrote a while back (included below more or less intact but with the addition of some drawings…) about challenging yourself to write wherever you happen to find yourself.

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The Dream Writing Space

We’ve all read the advice that we should create a special writing space, a particular spot where we go to work. According to the theory, because we have conditioned ourselves to associate this physical space with writing, it should be easier to write once we settle into our designated chair.

A dream writing space? Just that… a dream. Photo by Matthew Harwood on Unsplash

Over the years, I’ve spent many hours enjoying elaborate fantasies during which I created spectacular writing dens/nooks/private spaces in which to craft exquisite works of writing. The fantasies are a fun distraction, but so far I’ve lacked the tens of thousands of dollars needed to build my perfect treehouse (solar-powered and accessible by rope ladder, meals would arrive in this haven via wicker basket hauled up on a bristly rope exactly at the moment when I was nice and hungry but before I got hangry and lost my writing momentum).

At other times, the dream spot was on a sailboat bobbing peacefully at anchor in a sheltered bay, my only interruptions being dolphins who would visit whenever I was in need of a shot of external inspiration. In this variation of my fantasy writing sanctuary, hot cups of tea magically appeared without the inconvenient intermediate step of firing up the propane stove and waiting for the rolling seas to die down.

The idea that there exists a perfect writing desk/chair/room/castle tower is a myth as ludicrous as the idea that there will ever be enough time to settle down to the business of writing. There is never enough time. There is always something more interesting to do than to force myself into writing position where words may (or may not) be forthcoming.

Early in my writing career, I had neither time nor a corner to call my own. One winter when my daughter was a toddler, I visted my parents in Florida. I slept on the couch, my daughter on a blow-up mattress on the floor in my parents’ hotel room. The arrangement was cozy (to say the least). How inconvenient that I was determined to write when my mother was equally determined to stick to her guns and “…not raise another child. I’ve done that already.”

That meant my writing was limited to nap times and evenings. In an attempt to escape from the TV programs my parents liked to watch after my daughter went to bed, I set up writing camp in the closet with my back wedged against the ironing board. I typed on an electric typewriter scored cheap from a Florida thrift shop which I balanced on the folding luggage rack while I sat on a footstool and hummed softly to myself to tune out unwanted background noises. I imagined the day when I would build myself that magical treehouse. And, I wrote.

Because my circumstances didn’t allow for long blocks of time or a lot of privacy, I learned to write when and where I could. That discipline served me well. I wrote articles about kids in gymnastics (my daughter was obsessed with the sport when she was young) while sitting on a stack of folded mats at the gym waiting for my daughter to be finished practice. I wrote about my younger brother’s first trans-Atlantic sailing trip during my coffee breaks at a day job during which I helped balance the government accounts. I wrote a travel article about seeing the remote areas of Scotland on a bicycle while sitting at a picnic table beside a playground in South Carolina.

I wrote on scraps of paper, in partially filled notebooks I’d used at school, on the backs of draft documents left in office recycling bins. I wrote during my lunch hours. I wrote like a woman possessed, determined to figure out a way to somehow, someday free myself from my day job.

Had I waited until I had saved up enough money to renovate the spare bedroom and turn it into a quaint office complete with motivational quotes on the wall, well, I’d still be waiting to get started. Instead, the body of work grew surprisingly fast. The magazine pieces grew longer. I developed relationships with editors at several magazines. Publishing became a regular thing. A collection of essays became my first book (published in Japan in the late 1980s, it’s no longer in print). The first children’s novel (Rebel of Dark Creek) came out in 1996. I kept writing, even though I still had a full-time job, was raising my daughter, and later, caring for my terminally ill mother. As I worked on the next 35 books (and I don’t know how many articles and blog posts) I still didn’t have a proper writing space.

My writing space lived in my backpack — home to a portable office with notebooks, laptop, and library books. Wherever I found myself — at a coffee shop, the library, in the car beside a soccer pitch, a corner of the kitchen table, that closet in the hotel room, a space tucked in the corner of the bedroom behind a bookshelf… I wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

At the moment, for the first time ever, we live in a house with a spare bedroom where, yes, I’ve set up a tiny office. Is it wonderful? Yes! Of course, it’s fantastic to have all my stuff here, a door to close, a desk nobody else uses, my books organized the way I like them…

But, is it necessary? No. I still take a backpack with essential writing (and, now also drawing) supplies every time I leave the house - just in case I find myself at a picnic table with something I want to capture on the page.

If you are waiting to start writing until you have the perfect spot for your laptop, your printer, your reference books… forget it. Grab a pen. A scrap of paper. And start. Now.

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I’m not the only one thinking about the matter of where we write. Joyce Vance posted this note on Substack and the comments reflect the vast range of places where creative work takes place:

All of this made me wonder whether (and how) I should change things up. Something I did years ago was take my writing to bed with me. I’d prop my notebook (or, later, laptop) on my lap and write until I fell asleep.

The phone and scrolling (or, sometimes, a movie on the laptop) have taken the place of my notebook and between that change of habit and that lovely office door of mine, I realize that I have completely separated my writing life from my personal/relationship life.

Is that a good thing? I’m not sure. If my husband never sees me write, is he likely to forget I’m a writer first, before all other things? Probably not. But this question did make me wonder if I shouldn’t reintroduce my notebook to the bedroom. I’ll let you know how that pans out…

What about you? Where do you like to write? Has that changed over time? Do you ever use the excuse of not having somewhere to write as a reason for not getting down to business? Do the words come easier in certain places or at certain times of the day? Do tell… If you are a Substacker, where did you write your latest newsletter or Note?