making magic

Who isn’t a fan of a good writer’s room (note: I don’t necessarily mean “good writer” but rather good “writer’s room,” although, of course, the ideal would be both)? I love snooping around in work and studio spaces, trying to see where folks make the magic happen.

*When we still lived in St. John’s, my husband and I carved out bits of the basement for ourselves, with a bookcase serving as a wall between us. Here it is, still shiny and new.*

Years ago, and I do mean years ago (like 17 -19 years ago), The Guardian had a semi-regular series called “Writers’ Rooms,” which allowed the hungry busybody the opportunity to step inside the creative spaces and brains of a broad range of writers (and some musicians and composers). The set up was simple: a single photo and then a bit of writing about the space.

Louis de Bernières talks about his studio at the end of the back garden, away from the bustle of the main house, and the photo features a dark wood table, papers scattered across it. There’s a CD player, a coffee cup, a clock and a chair cushion, but no computer or ergonomic chair to be seen. Instead, we get a chance to look out his window into the green space beyond. Idyllic.

By contrast, Charlotte Mendelson’s room is cluttered with the debris of family life. Her creative space is the only room in the house with a phone. It’s also got a soccer ball, a scooter, a foosball table, and a teetering stack of boxes that cover half the window. She writes that it’s temporary, a way station before her final space: a bathroom-turned-study.

Russell Hoban, who I know best as a children’s book author, has a similarly cluttered space with hoodoo-like stacks of books, CDs, and more. He’s also got prints pinned to his bulletin board and a somewhat incongruous orange paper lampshade. In his words, “this room, full of all kinds of reference materials, is my exobrain.”

These days, I revel in Ova Ceren’s garden library with its bright pink French doors, walls and stacks of books, colourful mugs of tea, colourful toadstools, and eager ducks.

*One weekend, I moved into our department’s seminar room on campus, just so I could spread myself out and really work through the structure of my memoir.*

I’ve got my own work/studio/writing/creative space, too. My room of my own, like Louis de Bernières’, is away from our main house, in the back garden. It used to be a small carriage-like house, built sometime in the 1920s or so, before it was divided into two rooms and used as a video editing space a few owners back. Now, one space is bike and other storage and the other is mine. All mine.

I love it. I love it *so much*! I still sometimes can’t believe it’s mine.

But the other day, when I was asked to take a photo of my studio space, I had to pause. Was I going to take a picture of this room, with its messy desk, cluttered sewing/cutting area and shelves filled with books? That seemed most logical.

*Cluttered cutting table. Cluttered sewing table. Books. Not shown: fabric scraps on floor, cluttered desk, bookshelves…*

But what about the basement sink, where I do all my fabric staining and dyeing? Or the bedroom, where I mix up cyanotype chemicals (and where the closet door has blue spatters on it…. oops!)? Or the living room couch where I do all my handstitching? Or our bed, where I do a lot of reading? Or the dining table where I write and think when the weather is pissy and I don’t want to go outside? Or the benches in the Public Gardens where I read? Or the tables and chairs by the outdoor swimming pool where I take my notebooks and my markers? Or the bench by the Northwest Arm where I sit and breathe? Or the museum where I go to seek inspiration? Or airport lounges which are often surprisingly wonderful spaces for creative thinking? Or my neighbourhood walk, where the rhythms of my body encourage my thinking? Or the online communities I belong to, where we share writing, stitching, ideas, and dreams? Or or or?

The truth, of course, is that creative magic happens anywhere and everywhere. We don’t just turn our creative selves off the moment we leave our main lairs. We don’t turn ourselves on the moment we turn on the lights when we return. Things are bubbling, brewing, stewing, fermenting all the time.

Where do you like to play, dream, write, create?

burrowing