TripLit with D. Major

TripLit with D. Major

A Destination of the Mind: Magical Writing Spaces

When I finally committed, I mean committed, committed, to this writing thing, I instantly thought I needed a dedicated writing space. This belief isn’t uncommon with new writers, and I wasn’t immune from this conviction, but it can go too far. I mistakenly believed writing could only be done in the perfect spot, and not just the perfect spot, but a magical spot. And so, before I went back to school for a creative writing degree, I had that magical writing spot built. Until that point, I was writing, but I also spent a good amount of time complaining about not having my own space in which to write.

I live in a condo in Atlanta where space is limited, so to rectify the writing space dilemma, I carved one out by merging a tiny coat closet with the empty space right behind the closet that was once dedicated to an alcove for those massive console TVs from the past. We hired a contractor to build walls, wire electrical, hang sheetrock, paint walls, and tile the floors. We added shelving for my five million books and I squeezed in a small writing desk and an antique bookshelf into the space. But the very best part of all was the door—a bookshelf door. You wouldn’t know when the door is closed that there’s a tiny room behind it! I proceeded to decorate my space with all my oddities and curiosities and, last but not least, I christened my space “House of Weird.”

Here are some of the items that reside in my House of Weird: one red devil (his head is made out of a coconut), Kokeshi dolls (Japanese wooden dolls), Matryoshka dolls (Russian nesting dolls), voodoo dolls (I have a thing for dolls as you can see), two witches’ brooms, a print of two skeleton dinosaurs having tea, a print of the house where Nathanial Hawthorn was born a/k/a the House of the Seven Gables, one water color and one photograph of a Hemingway’s Key West house, a water color of the Leeds Library (I wrote about that library in a previous piece for WELL READ called “Marching on Together”), two caldrons, oracle and tarot cards, my collection of knick-knacks inspired by Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Alex Haley’s collectible figurines based on his book, Roots, multiple horror-inspired Funko Pop figures mostly based on characters form Stephen King’s novel, The Shining, one Buddha, one Krampus, one Pope Francis bobblehead, gobs of ink pens, piles of writing journals that I scribble ideas in and never look at again, my beloved collection of signed editions that run the gamut from Harry Crews, Charles Frazier, William Gay, Joyce Carol Oates to Grady Hendrix, George Saunders, and Brom, a framed piece of wallpaper from the Scott & Zelda Fitzgerald Museum House in Montgomery (I’ll be sharing my visit with WELL READ readers in 2025), a stack of anthologies I was published in, a stack of books I’ve committed to review, and a stack of favorite books on the craft of writing. This list is not exhaustive, but I think you get the idea. 

With all my stuff crammed into a tiny space and my secret bookshelf door that tends to get stuck locking me inside—I hadn’t considered that the weight of the books would push down on the thingy that holds the door in place when closed—I proceeded to NOT use my space. Instead, I remained at the dining room table. Oh sure, I would gaze upon my magical writing space throughout the day, but for some reason it had an off-limits vibe. It was too perfect, too enchanted. The personification of my ideal writing space was now made real. Whenever I procrastinated about writing (a lot), it was a testimony to my lack of writing. There it stood making me feel guilty for building it because I wasn’t writing in it enough to deserve it. All that would change with COVID-19.

In the height of the pandemic with stay-at-home orders, I hunkered down with my husband, Nick, my son, Harry, an attention-starved kitty (or so he believes), Chief, and my two yappy dachshunds, Lucy and Bruno. The hounds—I might as well call them shadows—literally must have one of us in their periphery at all times. With Nick at work and Harry at school, I was used to being alone during the day. Now, with the boys at home 24-7, I was forced to move from the dining room to that ultra-cool space we had built specifically because “real” writers need a dedicated space in order to write. The move from the dining room table to my space took some adjusting to, and I found myself going back and forth to the dining room or sitting down to write in House of Weird and then getting up and leaving to clean something or basically to do anything to avoid writing. I now know why my space felt like a no-fly zone and why it made me feel like I did as a child if I sneaked into one of Nana’s forbidden rooms. I had built a shrine. How could I possibly work somewhere so sacred? 

In Stephen King’s book On Writing, King shares where he wrote during the beginning of his career. King writes: My wife made a crucial difference during the two years I spent teaching at Hampden (and washing sheets at New Franklin Laundry during the summer vacation). If she had suggested that the time I spent writing stories on the front porch of our rented house on Pond Street or in the laundry room of our rented trailer on Klatt Road in Hermon was wasted time, I think a lot of the heart would have gone out of me. Tabby never voiced a single doubt, however…Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of the difference. They don’t have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough. Yes, supportive people are a must, but what struck me here was the where—the laundry room in King’s trailer and the front porch. King didn’t wait for the stars to align or a magic wand to create a magical writing space; he made do with what he had. So, don’t get bogged down by the place. If you have the drive, you’ve won most of the battle.

King also talks about avoiding any interactions with the outside world and suggests closing the literal door in order to “secure” your writing space. Clearly, this advice came from his later years. This is what I think: When there isn’t an ideal space, you may have to count on your headspace and tune out interactions. Recall those pandemic days I mentioned? Most of the time the TV was on in the background and though my bookshelf door was shut, it never stopped someone from opening it. While writing this very piece, I have been told that kitty likes his new cat litter (Thank God), I’ve been asked about what to do with a towel I left in the washer, and I’ve been asked if I want to see the new Lord of the Rings movie. This was a small sampling; I assure you there were more break-ins other than the ones I mentioned here. Even if I say, “I’m writing,” the bookshelf door is shut, and the interrupters can hear me typing away on my laptop, they will still disrupt me for the most trivial of things. I also live in a midrise in Atlanta. Cities are loud. If I required silence to write, I’d never write. Honest to God, at this point I think I could write in the middle of a circus. My writing space is a luxury, not a necessity. That’s not to say I don’t cherish it because I do, but I’ve discovered that writing is 90% desire and 10% time and place. I give time a low percentage rate because let’s face it, we waste most of it. Ban yourself from the internet and social media. You will find the time. 

If there is a moral to this story it is this: beware of setting up your writing to be dependent on a space. Space is oftentimes a state of mind. If you maintain that you can only write in library-silence, or you cannot write without your espresso con panne in your corner at your favorite coffee shop or without interruptions in a designated (magical) writing space in your home, then you might need to reevaluate how much you want to be a writer. Writing will require that you give up time from one area of your life and it will require that you tune out those interruptions that make you want to scream. You might have to work when Mercury is in Retrograde. Seek support, but don’t expect it. If you are looking for validation from friends and family members, you will oftentimes be disappointed. And finally, remember that the magic is in the words, not in the space where you conjure them.

Note: The photos of writing spaces included in this piece are my “House of Weird,” as well as two spaces from WELL READ Magazine columnist and co-editor, Ann Hite, and Mike Coleman, whose story, An Ekphrasis Moment: Good for the Soul, was published in May 2024’s issue of WELL READ Magazine and a member of my artist salon, M’ville.