The Perfect Space to Write (Or: Once I Have Blank, I Can Blank)
Lately, I’ve been aiming to do a daily writing exercise by answering a prompt from a new book I recently purchased called Thinking About Memoir by Abigail Thomas.
It’s a small and to-the-point book that is perfect for tiny attention spans like mine. In it, she describes writer’s block as someone repeatedly trying to enter the front door, only to find it locked again and again until they eventually give up and sit on the porch in frustration with their head in their hands. To combat this, she recommends writing prompts that seem unrelated, but equate to the writer walking around the metaphorical house and seeing if they can find a way to enter through a side door, maybe a window.
While her advice loosely equates to breaking and entering, it does indeed have merit. Her prompts allow the writer to pop a window and climb on in, finding new angles from which to access the story they want to tell. One such prompt I recently sat down to scribble a response to was this: Write two pages of the perfect room for the perfect activity (or lack thereof).
I laughed when I read this, because 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?
When I lived in Michigan and restarted this blog in 2020, I used to feel as though not having a true “office” was a major deterrent in my ability to write and ability to write anything good. Now, I look back on my attic office space with its hand-me-down desk gifted to me by my partner’s uncle, a filing cabinet tucked perfectly underneath, an old bookshelf built into the wood paneling, and a wall behind me that had two picture frame shelves my partner built for me, fondly.
It had no overhead lighting and the guest bed in the center of the room was a constant invitation to stop whatever I was doing and take a nap next to the dog. I could hear my neighbor’s mini Goldendoodle barking next door and a loud rhythmic tink, tink, tink from heavy machinery a few miles away pounding metal beams hundreds of feet into the ground for the construction of a new building over months and months. I can still hear it in my head now as I write this.
Sometimes, I would avoid my attic office altogether and write on the back patio or while sitting on the living room couch, with my journal and laptop and pens and whatever book I was reading at the time sprawled out next to me.
In this new house in the Southwest, I have also felt that I could write more and better if I had a designated and inspiring space. Then my partner and I found the antique wall unit of our dreams, with a desk built in right in the center. This is it, I thought.
The day we installed it, I had the urge to sleep on the nearby couch that night because I was so magnetized to it. After sitting at it to write for the first time, I realized I actually hate having my back to an open room and a desk in the center of the house exactly opposite the living room TV wasn’t the greatest idea for a writer’s retreat. Though, I have loved writing at it at night before bae gets home from work with nothing but the glow of the entryway lamp and my desk light. It has to be the perfect circumstances to write perfectly, of course.
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.
Lately, I tend to write in an armchair or at a coffee shop. Even without this fictitious “perfect room” to write in, I still can write, and sometimes I even like what I write and many times I share it.
Maybe one day I’ll have a completely soundproof office with the perfect combination of natural light (with shades that open from the top-down so I’m not distracted by anything outside), overhead lighting, and the soft glow of lamps spaced perfectly throughout the room.
Maybe I’ll have a heavy chunky wooden desk with ornate floral engravings down the legs and it’ll be positioned in the room exactly however I want. Maybe I’ll have shelves with a healthy balance of trinkets and plants and empty space, desk drawers with antique keyholes to store clutter and supplies, and plenty of styles and colors of pens and notebooks within arms reach.
Maybe I’ll have the perfect bookcase behind me that extends floor to ceiling and has a ladder hooked to the very top to store the treasured words of my favorite writers and help me write better through osmosis.
But chances are, even if I had this imaginary perfect room in a secluded part of the house or down a long winding drive away from civilization, I’d still want to get up to grab a cup of tea or switch the laundry or feed the ducks or rock on the porch with a good book or try my hand at making convincing bird calls because my brain cannot in fact, be wrangled or persuaded by the perfect room.
Though still, somehow, I can write.
And so can you.
Yours dreaming and doing,
Emily Rose // Miss Magnolia
Need to work out some scattered brainthoughts on the page? Grab yourself a guided journal (and write it in from wherever - even if it’s not an Instagram worthy nook in a Scandinavian cabin overlooking the ocean).
Half book, half journal, this paperback collection of stories and pointed questions is designed to help you dig deep and shake loose those "ah-ha's" that are buried within you. Because no matter how stuck or scattered you may feel, YOU have all the answers.
The WITRI Journal contains over 75 pages that aim to foster connection back to yourself and tackle complex brainthoughts like self doubt, imposter syndrome, and self acceptance.
Want to learn more about the WITRI Journal? Check out this post for a deeper dive.