Sacred Spaces

We Hot Tamales have been asked by our Blog Mom to tell all you inquisitive readers about our writing space.

Well, I’ll tell you, mine is nothing like oh, say, Christina Dodd’s. I have no moveable bookshelves, my windows don’t overlook sweaty muscled men laboring in my yard (unless I happen to catch hubby mowing the hillside) and I have nothing that in anyway resembles a customized desk.

As you can see from this first picture here, my writing space has blue walls. I chose this particular color when I was writing women’s fiction and I wanted to imagine that when I looked up from the computer, I was staring at endless blue water. I still love the color, even though I’ve switched to historical romance set in the late Victorian Era.

My writing space is small, it only occupies about one-third of a room that is about 12’X 11’. But for me, it’s home. I have all the essentials that every writer needs—a computer, a light source (don’t you love the frog?), a window with a view (sort of, if you count the neglected hillside in our back yard), plenty of desk toys to help me think and an emergency stash of alcohol.

Since I believe that writing should never be done in a situation where one is physically uncomfortable, I have chosen to fore go the traditional desk and secretarial chair and follow the example of my mentor, Haywood Smith, and write in a recliner. This particular chair belonged to my father. He sat here to watch the news, MASH, and the occasional program on PBS. In this chair he rocked his fussy grandbabies to sleep, and took more than a few naps himself. This chair has history, it’s comfortable and comforting.

On the antique side table I keep a kitchen timer, a clock, a cup full of pens and pencils (the cup was bought in England and says “Lady of Manor”), a replica of an antique Scottish butter mold, a tiny antique picture of a Victorian antecedent cutting up with a couple of her friends, reading glasses, paper for jotting notes and a foam chicken, compliments of my dear friends at the now defunct, Squawk Radio.

In the open drawer you’ll spot a giant, fold-out map of Great Britain, a couple containers of yogurt because I forget to eat when I go on a writing binge, and a tube of pain relieving hand cream.

And down in the corner, leaning against the window is my portable office—a capacious backpack that holds just about everything I need to write away from home.

There’s even the requisite cat. This particular one is named Junebug. Other residents include her mom, Kit-kat and her sisters, Felina and Gin Blossom (Ginny to her friends). Occasional visitors also include Roxy (aka Rockhead the yarn stealing dog) and Pepper Ann, the world’s most cowardly rat terrier.

In this second picture, you’ll see a bookshelf. It’s not nearly big enough, but for now, it suffices. On the top is a replica of an antique beer bottle, a couple of shells I’ve accumulated over the years and a delicate candle holder my sister gave me. There’s also an interesting little pottery jar I bought in Honduras.

On the second shelf, I keep a few historical romances—whatever interests me at the moment. If you look very carefully, the first book on the left is a 1st Edition copy of Ashes In The Wind by the venerable Kathleen Woodiwiss. This was a gift from my daughter, Alana.

On the third and forth shelves are just a few of my reference books. Everything from People of the British Isles (1870 to Present) to James Michener’s Writers Handbook. I even have a tattered copy of John Lust’s (don’t you just LOVE that name??) The Herb Book.

So, there you have it, a virual tour of where I spend not nearly enough time, where I angst over every word I write and where I question the sanity at pursuing this longshot dream of becoming a Published Writer.

So, what about you? Do you have a Sacred Space? What, if I may be so bold to ask, do you do there? Do you meditate? Do you write? Read? Knit? Cook?

Oh, and there’s a ten point bonus for anyone who can tell me the significance of the part about Kathleen Woodiwiss and the person who gave me the book.