How to Be a Writer - Part II (Your Writing Space)

Last time, in part one of our multi-part series, I talked about the basic tools that you need to be a writer. This time, I'm going to talk about where you write. Keep in mind, there is no right answer for this. There is what works for you. I'm going to be talking about what works for me, sharing a few glimpses into my writer's lifestyle, and what works for a few of my contemporaries (with their names redacted so you won't think I'm name-dropping anyone).

So what do you look for in a writing space? Well, if you're like me, you look for a few things. Darkness, few windows (I'm easily distracted), and a frickin' door, to start with. For me, a writing space becomes holy ground. When I'm in that space, I am not to be disturbed, and everyone in my life, in theory, knows that. It's not as pretentious as it sounds, really. The thing is, I have to be in a certain mindset when I write. When I hit that point, I can type for hours on end without a single break and not even realize the time has passed. But the thing is, it takes me a while to get there, and only an instant to pull me out of it. So, before we look at some different type of writing spaces, let's talk about the whole "sacred space" thing.

A Sacred Space is a place in the home that is used to unplug from everything else in your life so you can focus on one thing and one thing only (whatever that is). In most cases, when people talk about sacred spaces, they're talking about focusing on their spirituality, loving the world, or some other aspect of spiritual growth. Now take that concept and apply it to your writing room. Your writing room/space/garage/nook/ironing board should be that sort of place for you: A place where you can tune out the rest of the world and focus on what truly matters. In this case, it's your writing (and let's be honest here... Writing is a form of spirituality. And therapy.). It should be filled with things that help your writing, not distract you from it. Let me explain.

My writing room is an ode to chaos. Contained therein, you will find dozens of occult curios, reference books, novels, books by friends and former students. You'll find Captain America's shield hanging on the wall and my pug's bed in the corner. You will find my guitar behind my desk and paintings by my wife around my desk. In short, the room is me. It's everything that I need to feel comfort. It's everything that I need so I won't worry, look around, and find excuses not to write. One thing you will not find: Bills on my keyboard. See, nothing goes into my writing space that causes me anxiety because, well, that's not how I work. When I write, I write in silence with only ambient noise from the house around me.

But that's not how everyone works. One author I know finds his creative juices in a booth an the local Starbucks, surrounded by people and with noise all around. That's his sacred space. That's the space he goes to when it's time to go to work. Ernest Hemmingway wrote standing up with his typewriter on his dresser. That was his sacred space.  Some people write with music. Some write in silence. I know at least one writer whose typewriter used to sit on an ironing board in a very small cubby.

The point I'm trying to make is this: Find yourself a space that, when you are there, it's time to work. Why? Because you are training your brain to get into its creative state. It's a trigger. Think of it like a Pavlovian response. We ring the bell, you drool. You sit in your writing chair, you start thinking like a writer. Then comes the tricky part: EVERYONE ELSE.

I got lucky. I married an artist who understands that, when I'm working, I need to be left alone. She needs the same thing when she works. When we bought our house, we each created a space that was uniquely ours. I have my writing room downstairs, she has her art studio upstairs. And we both know when the other is in their sacred space, we leave them the hell alone.  And, yes, I'm aware that this makes us sound unbearable to live with, but that's what it is to live with creative people. We complement each other, and we deal with it.

But most folks aren't that lucky. The key to dealing with this? Ground rules. Communication. You can't just assume your partner(s) will understand what's going on in this room if you don't tell them. So you need to very carefully and explicitly set some ground rules for how you would like the world to operate if you're in your writing space. And then be expected to make compromises. For example: "I'd like to not be disturbed if I'm in this place, because I'm working on a novel." "Okay, but if we haven't seen you in eight hours, I'm breaking the door down." "Fair." Remember, a temperamental creative type you may be, but you're not allowed to be 100% asshole. Your partner's feelings are just as valid as yours, so you need to respect them. But you also need time to do what you need to do. Communication is the only way to solve this problem.

The point I'm trying to make is this: Find your space. Whether it's in a coffee shop, an office, your back porch, or even in your kitchen, find what works for you. Find the place that, when you sit there, your brain knows it's time to go into a creative cycle. And if you're one of those people who can work anywhere and anytime, more power to you. I wish I could, but I can't. And that's okay too.

Oh, and just in case you're wondering, here are some photos of my indoor and outdoor writing rooms.  Yes, I write on my back porch some times.

Next time, we're going to talk about one of the most important, and often ignored, aspects of actually being a writer in part three of our three-part series.

Until next time, write on!

SAJ

Creating Sacred Space

While opinions often vary, and there is no one right way to follow this career path, I'm of the opinion that writers need their own space.  Whether it's a room with a spectacular view or one with no windows, blank walls or covered in inspirational art, a writer needs to have a place where the muse speaks to him or her.  I'm not saying you must consecrate your space with white sage and candles (but if you do, more power to you), but writers need to have a space all their own.  At least, I do.

For many, it's a particular end of the couch.  For others, it's the kitchen table.  I can't work in such conditions.  Nothing against those who can, it's just not for me.  When I write, I need quiet.  I need solitude.  I need to be left the hell alone so my creativity can jump from the ether to my heart, from my heart to my brain, from my brain to my fingers and from my fingers to the page.  I was fortunate enough to have someone who understood my need, and who indulged me by allowing me to stake out areas of the house and claim them as my "office."  And from day one, the moment my desk goes into the room, it belongs to me and me alone.  And my children, my friends, and anyone who ventures into my home knows that my writing room is holy ground to me.  It's a place where I can be me and entertain my most depraved thoughts without judgement.  A place where everything is where I put it, and where nothing is moved or added without my say-so.

Yes, for the record, I am aware that I sound like an egomaniacal bastard and an absolute nightmare with whom to live.  I accept that.  I don't feel it's true, but that's not the point of this article.

So what's in my sacred space?  What makes my office mine?  What makes my little room an area where the muse can speak to me?

First off, there's the door.  I can close it if I need to and I know no one will disturb me.  For me, a door is crucial to the solitude that I crave to get stories written.  Second, the walls are adorned with art by friends and family, certificates of accomplishment, gargoyles and hats.  I even have a pro-wrestling championship belt on one wall, with the Golden Crackpipe award (long story) on another.    I have a leather easy chair, which is usually occupied by Owen, and the great glass desk that I keep meaning to have replaced.   But the real secret to my office is in my shelves.

Oh, my shelves.  Keepers of arcane knowledge and inspiration the likes of which the world has never seen.  One shelf holds only books by me and by my friends and former students.  Another contains reference materials on witchcraft, ghosts, demons, monsters, and other religions.  But then, there are things that, to look at them, one wouldn't know what to think.  There are shelves in my office that contain memories from my adventures in writing and in life, things I've made and things that were given to me.  The top shelf contains real, honest to Legba, Mojo Bag, made by a vodoun priestess.  The shelf below contains candles, daggers, incense and a bottle of "Coffin Liquor," made by my dear Tabby and given to me.

And amid the other shelves and their contents of sonic screwdrivers, pro wrestling memorabilia, statues of Chaplain and Harpo and my hand-made replica of the Necronomicon (yes, really), there is a special shelf.  One that makes me smile whenever upon it I look.  On this shelf is a bottle of tears, an alligator's head, a venus fly-trap, a big-ass piece of candy corn, monster cars and innumerable other items that hold special meaning for me.  They are things given to me by former students.  Treasures that I hold more sacred than gold.  I look at each of them and I know from where they all came.  I know the names and the faces, and I draw inspiration from them.  My very first student, Betsy Whitt, gave me a miniature horse blanket, named "Horse Thrall."  It hangs on my wall just above my computer where I can see it when I look up.  Are there things I treasure more than others?  I'd be lying if I said no.  But every piece in the collection has a meaning for me, and every piece represents another person who touched my life and who pushes me on.  Every time I get knocked down, I picture them all doing their best impressions of Burgess Merideth, screaming "Get up, you son of a bitch!  Because Mickey loves you!"

And that's the point, I suppose.  My office, my sacred space, is a place that energizes me.  The ghosts of stories past and of stories yet to come live there, and when I am within her walls, they speak to me.  They speak only to me.  The things in this room mean nothing to anyone but me.  And so, for everyone else, it's just a room full of my junk that this old fool won't let anyone touch.  But to me, it's Wonderland.  It's my sacred space because in here, I can touch the gods.

Leave a comment.  Tell us about your sacred space.  Let us know how you work.