I live in a pretty small two bedroom apartment. It’s just my boyfriend and I so we don’t need much space, but small all the same. The second bedroom is the closest thing to an office we have. Love seat, desk top computer, and a wonderfully large, hand-made bookshelf. Musical instruments line the walls to make it a room full of our passions. This is not where I write though.
I write in the living room curled up on the couch with my laptop before me. In my house, my writing is something that I try not to make too much of a big deal. Putting myself out there to the public is something that is terrifying to me. If I act like it’s a passing phase with no real importance and no need for an office space, then it prevents me from getting hurt. At least in theory.
My writing space isn’t even really mine. Nothing in this house is. Everything is ours. I have to rush in my writing during times that I know I have the place to myself. I have to feel free. I have to feel as if no one is watching and that I am alone. I get too nervous otherwise. The space may not be mine, but the moments are. Every moment is my own.