Reading: Alas, Babylon by, Pat Frank
On The Farm: Mourning the loss of a lovely Barred Rock Hen, drying giant sun flower heads
Thinking About: Gothic Style

Once upon a time, before becoming a "real" writer, I believed that I would write the great novel once I had the right space to write it in. I needed the walls painted red, deep red, and I needed a dark wood desk, a cork board with pithy quotes and funny pictures, a collection of something quirky that other people would say, "what a unique collection of 'x'", an extremely comfortable, retro leather desk chair, an old fashioned metal fan, and on and on . . .

Then I got an agent and started taking my writing seriously and thinking of it as my job—during the day, when the kids are at school, I write. The timing was impeccable. Thing One and Thing Two were just entering kindergarten and suddenly the days opened up, a wonderful, yawning chasm of time. And I had the most perfect thing to fill it with—a novel.

There just wasn't time to think about the right space, or begin some kind of remodeling job, or remove the dresser from the bedroom to insert a desk. I just had to start writing wherever I could. And I was amazed to find that it was easy. Coffee shops worked fine, the couch was comfortable enough, the kitchen table worked, the backless bench at gymnastics and even the soccer field were passable. Any space. Any time. My motto was "bring it on, I can write anywhere."

Since then, I've found a lovely little desk, in a dark corner of Mr. Encyclopedia Man's office. He did a fabulous green remodel on a 1920's building replete with period lighting and a luscious mellow lemon color for the walls. He's in design and marketing so the whole place has a good, artsy vibe to it.

And my corner is like a cave—a little used back desk with dark green walls, a single light, and an old 1950's metal desk. Perfect. Headphones, laptop, and all the trappings of a real office like shared fax machine, lots of paperclips, a high speed printer. I live a charmed writing life.

The last few days though, I 've been thinking about that ideal writer's space again. A little game of "what if you could have it the way you want it?"

This line of thinking was spurred on it part by a book I bought Mr. Encyclopedia Man for his birthday. It was totally, completely for him, except for the fact that I was drawn to the cover and I really want to read it when he's done. But not until he's done. I swear.

Michael Pollan needed a space for his daydreams and slowly, over a long period of time, he built himself a little cabin in the woods.

Do you see those bookcases? And the icicles? And the little loft at the top? The big picture window? He must have a desk built in just below that window.

And a very small, but usable sleeping space in the loft, a good tea pot (cast iron), a comfy old leather chair, a straight, ladder back chair for guests (just uncomfortable enough that they won't stay long). Oh, wait. That must be my fantasy. He probably has totally different furnishings.

Speaking of the charmed writing life, I actually have room to build myself a little cabin, a tiny retreat meant for pen and paper. There's a perfect spot in the north pasture, in fact. During the spring, summer, and fall it looks out toward rolling green grass and a line of cherry trees. There's a little creek running to the north and an orchard of apple and asian pear trees to the south. It's darker over there on the north side but only a short walk down the gravel road to the main house.

My mind has run away with me.

I don't really know construction well although I can be a helpful assistant. And Mr. Encyclopedia Man has about thirty other farm projects that have to be done before winter (like a door for the goats—hint hint).

But I can't quite let go of the fantasy. I want the YA and MG sections of my library out there—I'll leave reference and general fiction inside with the exception of Storey's Basic Country Skills, and The Encyclopedia of Country Living. I'd also like a handful of local road maps. I might also want my comprehensive guide to canning because I don't think Mr. Encyclopedia Man will be searching around for that anyway.

I'd like the antique chinese lunch box.

And the crumbling wood and gold lacquer candlestick holders. All four of them. You know, the ones on the staircase ledge.

And most of all, I want it to have a cave like feel. It needs to be small, really small, and tight so that guests don't really feel comfortable because it's a space for one.

I'm feeling gothic, too. A dark, ominous knocker on the door. A strange, slightly leaning shingled facade. A black metal roof. A huge picture window that looks across the pasture.

Dark art—midnight blues, black undertones in crimson, heavy layers of oil paint, but small paintings. Because the room is mostly made of bookcases—ceiling to floor and the necessary cubby for an antique brass and wood step stool.

These crazy bat and serpent light fixtures.

If you're also a writer or an artist, I'll let you stay there when you come to visit. I'll even deliver hot tea, biscuits and strawberry freezer jam to you in the evenings before bed. But mostly I'll let you just sit, and think, and write a few words in that old leather journal you've been wanting to buy forever but didn't want to spend the money on until you realized you'd be spending a few days in a gothic cabin in the woods. All alone.