Morgan Dennis’s Writing Space
I remember when the New York Times feature came out containing photographs taken in and around Alice Munro’s Clinton Ontario home—including, most notably for me, her writing space. Of course, that house and its history have since taken on other associations, but at the time I was uncomplicatedly enthralled.
This was not some book-lined studio overlooking treetops but rather a simple desk tucked into the corner of what, judging by the age of the windows, was probably a fairly drafty dining room. Yes, there was the hardback dictionary perched on a music stand, the shelf with its dogeared New Yorker magazines, likely the very editions in which the author’s own short stories appeared. But was there anything that screamed Nobel Prize winner? Not really.
This dissonance was even more profound when I learned, some years later, that the Clinton house had sold. I quickly found the expired listing online and clicked through the images. Here again was that dining room, of course now minus the writing desk. Just another empty room within a house in need of some updates. It was impossible to square what I was looking at with the facts I knew—that the short stories contained in The Love of a Good Woman had been written in that corner. I kept looking at the pictures, as though waiting for some truth to reveal itself.
For myself, I think I have always imagined a kind of quintessential writing space—one that, if set up in just the right way, the real, true work will finally happen. In reality, the tap is either on or off for me, and the space itself is largely immaterial. I write mostly where I can, and I’ve come to appreciate a leave-no-trace setup.
“For myself, I think I have always imagined a kind of quintessential writing space—one that, if set up in just the right way, the real, true work will finally happen.”
The two desks that I move between are small and unadorned. One sits below an original painting from the 70s that used to belong to my aunt. It’s by the artist Raymond Chow and depicts a young girl standing in a field, blowing at the fluffy white seeds of a dandelion. I grew up around this painting, and I still see it through a child’s eyes. The other desk looks out over a treehouse that I built years ago for my son. He wanted it so badly and still loves it, even though he rarely used it. When I pause from my work, I’ll observe the painting, the treehouse, letting the thread of my thoughts unspool before pulling them taut.
Lately, with the days getting shorter, I wake up earlier than I’d like to. I’ll set up on the sofa with my laptop, as it was designed. I click the keys, waiting—hoping—for that particular rhythm as the sky grows lighter and, eventually, I hear the sounds of those I love.
Morgan Dennis has published fiction previously in The New Quarterly in the Spring 1997 issue. His work has also appeared in Grain, Prairie Fire, The Antigonish Review, The Washington Post, and elsewhere. He lives in Toronto.
Photos courtesy of Sandra Seitamaa on Unsplash.