Sometimes it takes returning to where things started. When it comes to medical issues with my family it tends to always get worse before it gets better, so I find myself home for the foreseeable future.
Although I wish it could be under better circumstances I find that words are coming to me in a way that I haven’t felt in a long time. I’m at the same desk that I’ve used all through middle school, high school, and college. It is a child’s room. Full of daydreams and faery tales. All of my young stories were scribbled here. The ones on the back of math homework that got turned in partially finished.
It isn’t the place that I first started writing. That honor belongs to a different house in Colorado, but this is as close as it could be.
This is where I wrote a story that was over seventy pages long, and I felt so accomplished although my middle school prose I’m sure lacked a certain weight.
My bed is pushed up against one wall. A day bed that I got to pick out, and I chose it specifically because the design was called “Camelot”. My desk is light brown that matches one of the bookshelves in my room. There are two others that share the same caramel coloring, but they didn’t fit into my room, and so they sit next door in our guestroom.
Even if I only have one standing bookshelf in my room I have seven different shelves mounted to the walls and is packed with books at least two rows deep and even more stacked on top. Some are older books I received when my grandfather passed away and I got his collection of old westerns. Some are young adult books that occupied precious
space in my school bags, and still, others are gifts. Books from loved ones that are old, books that I don’t take with me when my husband and I move because I don’t want to worry about their safety every few years.
So they wait in my room that right now smells a little bit of dust, the smell of a heater not used since last year, and a vanilla cookie candle that I have sitting right next to me. Each time I come into this room I feel enclosed, comforted and accepted by the thousands of pages and hundreds of stories that decorate my walls.
The technology that I use to write has changed over the years. From notebooks, a laptop, and for a few crazy nights a typewriter. Not the manual ones, although I’ve always longed for one. No, an electric one that was so loud when I turned it on that I thought it dimmed some of the romantic imagery for me.
Even though I entertained other professions while surrounded by these walls: an actor, a rock star, and a doctor, I always gave up those fantasies because there was always a story in my head that needed to be told.
It may seem silly to some of you, and it may seem as though I’m taking the words right out of your mouth, but coming home to this room, to this place where those young, silly stories were told pushes me forward in a way that my current workspace does not.
It could be all of these things, and it could just be my brain going through some sort of Pavlov training. I come to my room, sit down at my desk, smell the spicey musky scent of my room that even as I type I still wonder where it comes from, and I write.
The words simply spark and ignite.