Carol Bruneau’s Writing Space

My writing space is a sunroom with windows for walls, flowering plants, a mess of books and papers, and a great ground-level view of our street. This room of my own is quite a step up from the dark little bedroom where I started writing fiction. These days, I often share it with my three-year-old grandson and his toys—fitting, in a way, since his dad, the youngest of my three sons, was his age when I first dared to try writing a story. Eleven books later, hardly a day passes when I don’t pinch myself, grateful for my good fortune in having this space, complete with desk, chair and lamp I won once in a draw. Along with books and plants, other treasured possessions reside here—my camera gear, family photos, a painted wooden horse my aunt brought back from Scandinavia when I was six. Oh, and a small, handy treadmill. I’m also lucky to live in an unusually supportive neighborhood, where everyone’s close but not too close. From my desk I can watch folks come and go, wave and occasionally be waved back to. I’m like a fish in an oversize goldfish bowl. Late at night, my lights blazing, people might guess that I’ve got a deadline, but in the daytime probably figure I’m just in here making stuff up. Night or day, the space makes the solitude of writing a little bit public, my time down the rabbit hole less insular, and reminds me there’s a beautiful world out there, and it’s time to come up for air.