Hasn’t every writer thought they could write more or write on a consistent schedule or write more interesting things if only they were seated at an antique desk in a one-room cabin, positioned perfectly in front of a picture window overlooking a lake?

Hasn’t anyone who’s ever tried to do anything, thought that the thing could be done better or more consistently if something? If something were different or better or freer? If only the rules of the universe didn’t apply? If only there were more hours in a day or more mental capacity with which to do the thing that needs doing?

I wonder if this longing for the perfect space, particularly in regards to writing, comes from procrastination or romanticization of the artist’s space, the solitude necessary to shove out all else and pull some wild thing from the depths of the creative mind that can’t do what it needs to when windowed envelopes clutter the kitchen counter and cords from the TV console spill out all over the place, pulling us out of our creative worlds and into this practical one that asks loudly for constant attention.

Maybe it’s both.

Maybe it’s neither.

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