For years, my Office has been my laptop and my cell phone, and wherever I could perch for a few hours uninterrupted. On the “uninterrupted” front, the cell phone may have been a mistake–since my kids got their own cell phones, their ability to respect Mom’s work time has been, um, problematical. And while going to a bookstore or cafe where the coffee is fresh and the noises are not my own worked well for a long time, recently it hadn’t worked quite so well.
When we did some construction on our house this year, all my research books were piled into boxes. When the construction was over, I made an executive decision and took over the tiny little house that lives in the back yard (the former owner of our house used to groom dogs in there). Inside the tiny house there’s room for my desk, the big bookcase that holds my standard reference texts, and an ugly storage unit that came with the room. The carpet is Astroturf. It’s cold and drafty (although I also put a space heater in the little house which works quite efficiently), but it’s also out of range of the WiFi, which means I cannot fall down the Internet rabbit hole and blow my three hours of writing time in trying to find the right word for “fish” in medieval Italian. At least not without going into the house.
For the first time in my writing career I have an “office.” I got along pretty well without one, but I have to say that I’m enjoying having a place all to my self. Writing-wise, Virginia Woolfe was on to something.
Where do you write? Or read, for that matter.