By Sarah Herlong
I’m lucky to have an entire room devoted to writing. In the Spring, I have a great view of the blooming dog wood tree, as well as the occasional bird that alights on the windowsill. This drives my cats crazy. Even the whip snake that coiled itself in the vines growing up the window caused quite a stir, amongst us all.
I sit in a somewhat raggedy yet comfortable oversized chair and roll my computer to me via a nifty little computer desk on wheels. When I’m finished writing for the day or night, I simply roll it away from me. Likewise I have a rolling table that holds stacks of important papers. Everything at my finger tips just a roll away. I have a variety of children’s books to use as examples of age appropriate writing. Regrettably I have a small messy pile on the floor of magazines to read, books to read and some paperwork. This is material under the constant threat of Isis the cat, who shreds paper like she works for a shady politician.
I don’t have a name for my room. I rarely call it my writing room despite that being its primary purpose. I just call it my room. It also contains my curio cabinet. Housing the stuffed alligator, large bird skull, the glow in the dark, collapsing skeleton, and the pink head that giggles. It’s creepy… trust me. I have a more regal skeleton in the corner wearing a silk ribbon around its head, and a pink necklace that my grandmother used to wear. It sits cross-legged in a chair around a green candle. He’s a yes man. Never gives good advice.
I try to write every day, sometimes broken up with doctor’s appointments for my mother, or having to assist her throughout the day. She allows me as much private time as I need for writing, but still gripes about it. She’s lonely despite having close friends, and a daughter as an attendant. I can’t do anything about her loneliness, but I can write about it in my room.