The Writer's Room

Window in a cafe in San Gimignano, Italy credit Rhododendrites

I was in my thirties when I watched the movie Love Actually for the first time. I fell in love with the film, with its depiction of love in lots of its forms but most of all, I fell in love with Colin Firth, the actor who played Jamie Bennett, a writer who solidified my worship of writing. Like most readers, I had grown to imagine the places from which my favorite writers wrote and I was most curious about the ideal setting in which one would produce the kind of prose that sounded like a melody. I fantasized about the room I would someday create for myself; the old wood table with its clunky typewriter facing a window opened onto a peaceful country backyard. Perhaps a warm breeze would usher in a hint of lavender from neighboring fields and gauzy white curtains would sway as if to the euphonious sound of the thin wind. A mug filled with tea would sit near a pile of typed pages held down by a glass paperweight that I would have picked up in a Parisian flea market; a paperweight I carried around as a lucky charm. And the sound of keys, hit one at a time, would be all the music I needed while seated on the caned-back antique chair with its cheerful yellow seat-pillow.

Jamie’s room resembled peculiarly the one I had designed for myself save a few details. Once I began to write seriously, and by that I mean daily, I found that the space I dreamt of could be conjured if only in my imagination, the way characters and scenes could. I imagined myself in a provençal cottage, with its tiled roof and stone walls; my bare feet on the cool terracotta floor. I imagined myself in that setting where I’d imagine a plot, scenes and characters that I’d grow to love and miss the instant I’d walk away from the typewriter. And although the space I have used to write for the past six years is nowhere close to the south of France, it inspires nonetheless a profound sense of contentment.

My desk, a walnut trestle table that lived a century in a public library upstate New York before becoming my kitchen table, stands near French doors leading to the slate-tiled patio. A laptop plays the role of the typewriter and a notebook on which ideas are scribbled in colorful pens replace the pile of typed pages. And my view……an island. A kitchen island that is, on which the only reference to the Mediterranean is my daughter’s coffee brewer; an Italian little wonder. Seldom will you find a coffee mug near me for I favor the green water bottle that has become my lucky charm.But I must confess, the caned-back antique chairs I had imagined turned up on a sidewalk upstate New York, and after a much needed bit of attention, they have become six of my most faithful companions on the journey to become an author.

I had believed stillness to be the main ingredient in a writer’s environment. Yet, I write in busy airport terminals, to the rhythm of people walking in and out of my kitchen, and while others gather mere feet away, in the living room. Although my thoughts are better heard at night when no one is around to interrupt them, I must admit that the sun inspires my juices to flow freer than the moon does, thus I write at all hours, whenever the call of words must be answered.

The romanticized writer’s room has since become more concrete than I have ever dared to hope for. A group of women with whom I meet virtually every afternoon, and who have become my view between writing bits, have proven more inspiring than a field of poppies.These women, the Writer’s Room, are the open window from which I dream to someday publish my book, the way many of them did. Strong and generous, they support each other more than any lucky charm could, and I feel luckiest for my seat amongst them, as if they sat together with me around the old trestle kitchen table. Yet, these writers’ workroom remain a mystery to me for all I see is the background they choose to share with the group. I see the plants and colorful walls of one, the bookshelves of another, the bubble gum pink painted room of a third, and an artificial backdrop for some; but I have yet to discover their desk, bibelots and the talismans that inspire them. After years of creating side by side, I am yet to ask about their drink of choice, their favorite pens and I would love to know what hangs on their walls. I have seen what lays beyond some of their windows but have yet to see the spaces from which young adult, historical and mystery fiction are written. I can only imagine, based on the personality of the women I love and respect; and perhaps, their space remaining a mystery only adds to the fantasy I have created as a fence around our group.

As for my ideal setting, I have accepted that the ideal has a life of its own in my mind where it is affected by neither time nor space and can be summoned at my every whim.