My writing room is in the basement of my house, a bedroom that belonged to my youngest daughter before she married and moved away. It’s a quiet room, unless there are people in the living room above it, like when my grandchildren visit and have the TV on. A stereo of favorite music and headphones make for a pleasant escape from the noise.
My writing room is warm and cozy, though the floor is bare and gets terribly cold during winter. My favorite books and some of my early artwork surround my writing desk, and my soft leather chair swivels enough so I can prop my feet against my desk when I’m deep in thought or taking a nap. You can usually find boxes of Girl Scouts cookies on my bookcases, along with all sorts of written notes about my books in progress.
I have a phone in my writing room, but I keep it unplugged. It was a souvenir from France for my late mother, so it sits as decoration next to the Greek vase and trinkets I bought her while I toured the Mediterranean nearly forty years ago. Her black KJV Bible sits there too, the one she carried with her when she taught Sunday school in the 1960s and ’70s at a church that died long ago when its pastor abandoned the place for greener pastures and warmer weather.
A curtain is drawn over the only window and I keep the only door closed but never locked. My writing room is a place to write at, not hide from family and friends. But few people ever visit me when I’m there, though my wife and dad have knocked on my door many times over the years. It’s nice to have visitors when the muse has left the premises.
My writing room is my sanctuary—a near sanctum sanctorum where I go to connect to the Great Mysterious … and to create the worlds in my stories and the people who live there.