Where do you imagine yourself working? What does your workspace look like?

What a question.

I don’t know

I thought.

Since I was going to be a writer, I molded the space to my imagined perfect place.

On the white paper I outlined a room with black ink.

Spartan

The room was empty. A desk. A typewriter. A computer. That’s it. All white like the page. A blank slate.

I knew that I was doing the assignment backwards. The picture was supposed to reveal what I wanted to be, not get tailored to what I already expected to be.

And yet

I would need my own space

I reasoned.

Not at home. An office. Away. Some place I would go each day. I could rent it.

I knew I couldn’t work at home. I knew that about myself.

I still haven’t found that white office. The stacks of paper are more controlled now than last time. But still, paper, stuff everywhere.

That’s why I leave to find a place to write. Out in the world. Someplace not home and not at work. Some place else.

How pretentious is the coffee shop? Is Starbucks more or less pretentious, really? So common. McDonald’s, then?

I’ve read the reports that clutter actually breeds creativity. So does sound at the right decibel levels.

What do I really need?

Strangely, I need people and movement. Activity that forces concentration. The coffee shop has people. It has motion. Doors open and close. Chairs pulled and pushed, screeching.

And it has coffee. Oh, coffee!

I have my headphones, I have trip hop, dreampop, emo, and indie rock ready. I can go from Gus Gus to Sigur Ros and finish with Arcade Fire.

What I realize is

This isn’t a white room.
This isn’t an empty office.
This isn’t a blank canvas.
This is motion and activity.
This is populated and messy.
This is bringing life to life.
I was wrong.

What I need, though, is to move this space. To not be restricted by the motion of strangers, but enlivened by the motion of my family. To find space in my home for focus and concentration.

No white rooms apart, but cluttered rooms full of toys and pictures and storybooks of unicorns and cats written by my little writer.

To crave this time: the time of work, rather than the leftovers: the time of waste.

To trust myself and my craft enough to do it, without regard to space. Or distraction. Or the voice in my head saying

Starbucks is just down the street…