My Room

I'm still working through Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own, but I am also working on my own room. We live in a larger home because we are a larger family, but still the only space left for my office is an unfinished corner of the basement. I like the metaphor of tucking in my little work space with all the plumbing and heating equipment in the basement. The room smells "cementy" and like a proper storehouse of family treasure. This is where our outdated computers with all their games live. This is where I keep the children's out of season or off size clothing. This is where the useful but not today things live. Part of me still sees my career as a writer in those terms. It is useful to be able to write, and someday in the future it will add to our income. Right now though my career is in storage. I come down here and give it a little spin every day. I write a little piece of foolishness for you my faithful readers, and I putz around with my manuscripts, but I'm not serious about it yet. I'm still fighting the programming from my childhood that says you can't have a career and a family. I'm sorry, but if I have to choose, the kids always come first.
But, and it's a big but--I'm starting to question the unquestionable. I'm starting to see, Hey, I write everyday, and the kids are still doing fine. I putz with my manuscripts and they are getting closer and closer to completion and I'm not on the road to divorce. The house is still fairly tidy, and I'm starting to work like a real writer. Maybe I can have all the all that I want. I'm not very greedy. I just want to write some stories, connect with the wider world and raise my kids. I don't think that's so much to ask of life.
My room is starting to reflect my changing attitude. My father and I are tentatively scheduled to add bead board to the one stud wall. I'm thinking of putting in a 4x8 panel of write/erase board, so that I can chart the plots and my progress on writing through them. I also love the idea of such a large space to scribble poem bits. My process for writing serious poems involves endless sheets of paper. I could save some trees with that white board. All the junk that I dumped in here is starting to find homes or head out to the final resting place of useless paraphenalia. I can't enter this room without straightening and organizing something lately. That's a good sign that pretty soon I'll be producing more than just this little bit of foolishness I've taken such pleasure in indulging. Thanks for reading everybody. You've helped me to evolve as a writer.