It's easy to ignore your surroundings when lost in the world of words, but they can make the writing life a lot more agreeable
AL Kennedy's study. Photograph: Eamonn McCabe
I am currently selling my flat, so forgive me if I break off to grind bread, bake coffee and scatter rose petals down my stairwell. Friends gleefully tell me that moving house is a major source of stress and I do, in a way, agree with them. I certainly found it stressful the last time I moved. Then again, I was trying to get rid of a damp-riddled hovel adrift from its own foundations the last time I moved. It took a while. Despite all that property's faults – and they were not only manifold, but crucifyingly expensive to rectify – I did live there very regularly and was used to it. I missed it when I left.
Although I love my current home – and it's in excellent nick and a bargain and so forth – I have to say that the only part of it that I will actually miss is where I am right now – my study. This was my very first ever personal study: red walls, no visible and therefore distracting books, quiet sunshine, no business-suggesting desk, no threatening desktop computer… just a comfy chair, a slim laptop (with lead screening for lap safety) and peace and a fireplace for when things turn chilly. I really will miss this.
To be fair, most of my books have been written in hotels, other people's spare rooms, borrowed houses, on trains and on the run, but even so… Since the summer of 1996 I have known I would always eventually come back to my study, that at some point my book would meet my study and they could sit down together gently and be introduced.
And I'm sure that all of you out there have either managed to build some kind of writing nest for yourselves, or are battling gamely to make the best of a kitchen table, or a bed-sit corner. Whatever your circumstances, it is worthwhile taking a moment to make sure you're as comfortable as you could be. Even if you can only make very minor alterations to your environment: finding a cushion for your chair, making the place smell of Marmite, because that's what a happy room smells like for you, changing a lampshade so the light doesn't tempt you to hang yourself every time you end a sentence. Even a proper study can always be improved, here and there, and low-level care of the author by the author may set patterns that mean next time around you're a millimetre less likely to agree to that laughably low fee, or sleep in that clearly infectious B&B, or rework your whole piece according to someone else's convoluted prejudices.
Full story at The Guardian.
Although I love my current home – and it's in excellent nick and a bargain and so forth – I have to say that the only part of it that I will actually miss is where I am right now – my study. This was my very first ever personal study: red walls, no visible and therefore distracting books, quiet sunshine, no business-suggesting desk, no threatening desktop computer… just a comfy chair, a slim laptop (with lead screening for lap safety) and peace and a fireplace for when things turn chilly. I really will miss this.
To be fair, most of my books have been written in hotels, other people's spare rooms, borrowed houses, on trains and on the run, but even so… Since the summer of 1996 I have known I would always eventually come back to my study, that at some point my book would meet my study and they could sit down together gently and be introduced.
And I'm sure that all of you out there have either managed to build some kind of writing nest for yourselves, or are battling gamely to make the best of a kitchen table, or a bed-sit corner. Whatever your circumstances, it is worthwhile taking a moment to make sure you're as comfortable as you could be. Even if you can only make very minor alterations to your environment: finding a cushion for your chair, making the place smell of Marmite, because that's what a happy room smells like for you, changing a lampshade so the light doesn't tempt you to hang yourself every time you end a sentence. Even a proper study can always be improved, here and there, and low-level care of the author by the author may set patterns that mean next time around you're a millimetre less likely to agree to that laughably low fee, or sleep in that clearly infectious B&B, or rework your whole piece according to someone else's convoluted prejudices.
Full story at The Guardian.
No comments:
Post a Comment