For writing to happen which matters more? A room of one’s own– a quiet space in which to work? Or time to work in whatever corner or space you have?
So we did it. But in the end we didn’t. After years of open houses, we bid on a beautiful– but not all done-up, big house– the one I referred to earlier. One neighborhood over. But so did someone else and we did not get the house. It would have given me room to spread out. Books, papers, a desk to myself– a real space for writing. But already I was worrying about where I would find the time amidst packing and trying to sell our place and all the ten thousand and 27 things that go with a move– to write at all. For weeks or months. My office is moving and I am pretty worn out with that move but it’s nothing like moving your home. So we didn’t get that house and here I am in my not-much-space, cramped- and- shared- desk in our biggish apartment that has been feeling small lately. But with no imminent major life change looming. Writing. Writing.