During our Seaside Workshop/Retreat this year, I spent the quiet-time hours of the morning writing in three different places:
- my upstairs bedroom with the door closed and the light off
- on a daybed in an secluded corner of the upstairs hall of the house
- in the fish house, pictured here, about a 5 minute walk from the house.
I was happy with the work I did in all of them, but what struck me most about that week was how much easier it was to get lost in the worlds of my characters than it usually is at home, despite the fact I have a perfectly nice room of my own to work in there.
In all three places and especially in the fish house, it was as if I were in a bubble. I knew no one would speak to me or even around me (quiet time at the retreat comes with a strict ‘no talking’ rule). No phones were going to ring and no email messages were going to come in. For three hours (or more) there would be no interruption beyond the possible need to step outside and pee in the bushes. How deeply engrossed I became in my work felt so different from what I’d grown accustomed to. I found myself thinking, ‘How do I replicate this kind of writing environment when I get home?’
Well, I’ve done it.
After eliminating other possible options (this place isn’t quiet enough, that one’s too chilly), I set up my own little ‘fish house’ in — believe it or not — a little corner beside the furnace. The furnace/laundry room/storage room is the warmest room in the basement. It has a door on it I can close. Because I’m facing a small corner, I can’t see what’s being stored at the other end of the room (which would make me think I should organize it better) or the washer and dryer (so I’m not inspired to do some laundry instead of writing either).
And it’s working. After trying it out for a couple of weeks, I gave the space a fresh coat of paint and replaced a makeshift arrangement of an old unused nightstand and a few boards with a nice little desk I found on kijiji.
Now when I’m going to work on my current writing project, I make myself a pot of herbal tea, grab my laptop (with its wi-fi turned off), and if my husband is home, I tell him “I’m going to the fish house”. I tell myself that, too, because psychologically it beats ‘I’m going to the furnace room’.
I only write in my fish house, where all I can hear is the hum of the furnace beside me and the voices of my characters, and all I have to look at are the images in my head and my words on the screen. (I work in full-screen mode in the “fish house” to eliminate as much visual noise as possible.
Answering email, doing Facebook and other internet tasks, writing blog posts, freelance editing, making phonecalls, keeping track of the finances — they all get done in my room upstairs, where I used to do everything. I “go to the fish house” only when I want to create, to focus on my writing. The act of going there seems to act as a signal to my brain that I’m intending to go into that bubble where truly sinking into the world of a story will be possible.
It’s amazing the effect of that intention and of ‘I do one thing and only one thing in this space’. Who knew it was possible to get so excited about a corner by the furnace?