A room of one’s own

Today is my first day with a room in which to write. It’s not my first dedicated writing space. But I’ve never had one with a door that shuts, until now.

I am not yet in the room as I type this. I want to reserve it for fiction, not blogging. In fact, I want to maintain the room as an Internet-free zone, and make a habit of turning off my laptop’s wireless before I go inside.

Until this past weekend, it was a guest room. A bed took up most of the space.

Without the bed, the room feels spacious all out of proportion to its square footage. A desk, a chair, bookshelves, beat-up file cabinets, my grandmother’s cedar chest repurposed as a window seat — and a wide, empty expanse of floor.

The view through the windows is mostly our neighbor’s roof and trees, but if I stand in the right place, I can see buildings on the other side of the river.

I’m going in.

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