Once upon a time, I wrote in shared spaces – my local library, a couple of coffee shops and my favourite space of all, upstairs in the independent bookstore where writers were invited to congregate on Monday mornings for a silent, productive 120 minutes. (shout out to the BookShelf in Guelph)
Of course, that was before we learned that masks can be a sign of respect and shared spaces are dangerous places.
I’m still struggling to replace my writing spaces. I have a home office – a sturdy desk, good lighting, lots of room for books and papers and pens. But it’s an office. It’s where I read emails from colleagues and draft reports and now, watch screens full of tiny faces watching me. When I sit in that chair, the logical, analytical part of my brain turns on. It works well for editing. Not so well for creating.