A small, square, white walled, grey carpeted room sits at the top of a flight of stairs in a suburban town house style home, adjoining two other rooms.
A view over a walking and bike path skirting the edge of bushland below is visible through a couple of narrow, vertical windows above a padded window seat, made comfortable with handmade cushions. Gifted handmade recycled paper heart mobiles hang above the seat. The perfect spot to read or people watch, yet rarely used.
Against one wall is a glass-topped trestle-style IKEA desk, narrow wooden cabinet and a stack of plastic filing boxes. Atop the desk are assorted canisters and tins of pens, pencils and highlighters, magazine boxes of paper and oddments, a gold tray with perpetually empty bud vases, yet to be lit candle, paper clips in a gold polka dot glass container, floral glass paperweight, always a large glass of water, sometimes a pot or cup of tea, camera, notebooks, laptop, phone, lamp, glasses, sometimes plates which may be full, half eaten or empty. Beneath the table nestles an until recently long unused sewing machine and hatboxes full of unfinished sewing projects. In front of the desk sits a chair, awaiting an occupant, whether sewer or writer, draped in a handmade patchwork quilt in lime, pink, yellow and blue florals and stripes. It is a modern quilt, a summer quilt, with bright cheery colours, adding comfort to the hard plastic chair and colour to a plain room.
The walls are empty except for a white magnetic noticeboard containing sometimes theatre tickets, always magnets, a first aid guide, check lists, receipts and reminders. More decoration is needed, but ten months after moving in, this room has none.
The sounds of breezes blowing through the nearby bushland, insects and occasional birdsong infiltrates the open windows, a ceiling fan whirs almost silently overhead. Every now and then, nearby traffic or an overhead hospital helicopter momentarily interrupt the calm.
There is no music, no distraction. This writer prefers to work in silence.
A small, fluffy white dog often snuggles under the desk, beside the chair or even on the lap of the chair’s occupant, preferring to stay close when someone is home, after hours on his own.
Can you envision this in your mind’s eye?
This is my space, my room, the study. Others rarely enter. This is my space to write, sometimes by hand the old fashioned way, with pen on paper, but more often now, tapping away on a computer keyboard. This is where I intend to work for an hour yet find myself surfacing many hours later after becoming engrossed in writing and losing all track of time. This is where I have recently rediscovered my love of writing and am working on a childhood dream of being a writer, whatever that may mean and wherever it may lead.
This is my space to write.