Last week, I wrote about plotting my story at the beginning of my book effort. Today, more years later than I like to admit, I am assessing what has survived to the end. As I await the final draft of my manuscript for the approval that will send it to the publisher, I have time to look about me and consider a question from a curious reader, “What does your writing room look like?”
Usually, I try to avoid this topic because my answer may be a bit depressing to an aspiring writer. There’s no beauty in my writing room, no scents, no music, no comfy writing chair. My my writing room looks like me: serious, hard-working, no frills, no comforts. But I am possessed with a dogged-determination to succeed. We feel it here: Detroiters never quit.
In front of my computer is a black, hard-backed, folding chair that I like better than those soft office types. I’m sitting there now and I invite you to look around with me. I will begin our tour to the left of my desk. At the far left, on the floor, are three large plastic tubs containing reference materials. Many of them are copies from Mike’s and my papers that are on file at the Walter Reuther Library Archives at WSU. Along with these essentials are stacks of journal articles, book reviews, and a file box of contacts and contracts. Books are scattered about.
Moving clockwise around the room one will notice that on the wall, I’ve taken down my plotting paper and stickies, which were the topic of my last blog, and replaced them with a piece I wrote on becoming an activist. It is pasted on the wall in a plastic sleeve, and begins: “How My Story Will Contribute to Understanding…what an activist is, how an activist operates, makes decisions, and pays the price,” followed by ten bullet points. And ultimately, “What I have learned in the process.” These were always on my mind, and in front of my face, as I wrote.
In a pile to the left of my computer are major documents that I consistently refer to. These include my book description, the table of contents and a copy of the vows I wrote for Mike’s and my re-commitment ceremony on our 35th wedding anniversary. My book is, after all, also a love story. Finally, there is a copy of a poem my editor sent me, titled: “There’s a Hole in My Sidewalk” by Portia Nelson. It reminds me that I’m not the only one who keeps making the same mistakes over and over.
To the right of my computer are folders holding consent forms signed by those who graciously permitted me to cite their pertinent written work or photos. Somewhere buried in this pile of papers are copies of difficult sections that I tried so hard to get right, a book listing my computer passwords that I can never remember, and a fat folder, marked “expenses.” At the far right, forcing me to stand up to retrieve documents, is my printer. My phone is also placed across the room. Without these mandates to move, I would turn to stone.
My attention moves again clockwise to the couch, where my corrections and proof-reading notes, all coded by color, are filling my husband’s empty seat. This is where he watched TV and listened to me banter and rave when I couldn’t get things right. He also functioned as my first-line proof-reader, and he could spell any word in the dictionary. Mike was my most ardent supporter in getting this book done. I’m trying to refocus after losing him.
After staring at the computer screen, I pause to blink and look out the window. There I see Detroit’s aging main post office, the undeveloped West Riverfront Park, the Salvation Army, the Sixth Street ramp, the infamous train station and several boarded up buildings. In the distance are the spires of St Anne’s historic church and the entrance lanes to the Ambassador Bridge. That’s it, that’s Detroit, and that’s me. And that’s what my writing room looks like.
I would love to know what YOUR writing room looks like. Please “leave a reply” at the top of this page and share your experience.
MY NEW BOOK IS COMING SOON
What My Left Hand Was Doing: Lessons from a Grassroots Activist.
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