The one that’s not about Morocco
When I imagine the prefect space for writing, two images come to mind.
One is a second story cafe in Newington Green, London. It’s a bit dark, a bit smokey, and has a couple small windows that overlook an old cemetary.
In no way does this place excite me as a writing space, but I always think of it.
Perhaps that’s because I have distinct memories of sitting alone there, journalling my heart out as a 19-year-old. Handwritten, of course, in little books…. long before the days that laptops were as common as peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
The other place I think of is a small office on the second story of an old farm house. There’s an oversized desk, a huge window, and lots of natural light. On the desk are a couple of framed photos, few pieces of paper, and several pens scattered aorund. (Why are there pens? I write on my laptop.) Ouside there’s a looming oak tree, sprawling lawns, and of course a babbling brooke.
(This place doesn’t exist. Well, I’m sure it does. I’ve just never been there.)
I’ve never wanted to live in teh country. But I can certainly imagine wriitng there.
Neither of those places are my ideal writing spaces, and yet they are the ones I always think of – one real and one pretend.
When I sat down to write this post I was going to write about Morocco.
About the shapes of the doors and the colors of the shoes. About the flicker of lanterns and the cobblestone alleys adn how it all made me long to write and create so desperately.
How did I get to a smelly old cafe and imaginary farm house from that?
Someday I will write about Morocco. A strange and beautiful and far away place.
Until then I’ll keep writing from my couch in this old Queenslander I call home.
Q for you: What’s your ideal creative space?
Click Clink Five is a blog by Adriel Booker. | Five minutes a day, unedited. | 2012 All rights reserved. | Adriel also writes on parenting and motherhood at The Mommyhood Memos.