The subject of that famous 1928 essay by Virginia Woolf, establishing a room of one’s own for writing, has finally become a reality for me. In truth, I’d had a room of my own, but in this life, you know, things change.
Until recently I had my “study,” a room tucked away at one end of our home, which became my private working space. There I had three desks: a computer desk, a household desk for paying bills and making calls, and a lovely wide drafting table with lots of elbowroom to create my short stories, blog posts, and book reviews. With my husband away at his office all day, I could write and write to my heart’s content. All was bliss.