My writing space has been in transition for three years as I’ve moved from home to home to home. And during this time, most of my books have been in cardboard boxes, shuffled from place to place. I’ve missed them.
One great thing about writing is that it’s accessible. Anyone can do it with only a pen and paper. On a phone. On the back of a grocery bill.
I’ve learned to write in cafés and libraries. While I’m walking or lying in bed. Even in doctor’s waiting rooms. It’s good to know that I can write wherever I am.
Now, I’m in a fresh, new writing space with a new desk and – best of all – bookshelves. Right now, they’re empty, ready to welcome my books. I don’t want to rush this unpacking. I want to figure out how to organize them. By genre? By size? By colour? So many possibilities.
What will I write in this space? What new stories will come to be? What frustrations will I face? I can only imagine the possibilities. But at least I’ll face them with my books, spines out, pages full of facts and stories that are my old, familiar friends.
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