I actually have an office. It’s beautiful. Wasabi-green walls, twin bookcases stuffed with novels, a leather recliner with matching ottoman… and my daughter’s crib.
Her sleep schedule precludes me from using the room right now, but even before she was born, my office was only that: an office, where I worked from home doing transcription and editing work. My equipment took up a bulk of my desk; the work took a bulk of my energy. I did part-time for the first two years of my son’s life, and finding 20 hours a week while stay-at-home-momming was brutal, with late nights and early mornings. After clocking out, the last place I wanted to be was sitting at that desk.
I’ve written nine novels, and each one has had its own magic space, dictated by necessity. My debut was written at the kitchen table because our in-laws were living with us at the time; its sequel at a folding table in my bedroom. The project I’ve just hit the end on has been written almost entirely at the kitchen island, where I can keep an eye on the kids while trying to squeeze in a sentence or two. The only commonality is the fact that once I choose a spot, I nest there until the book is finished—so it needs to be clean and free of clutter. Nothing derails my writing more than a mess. I’ve also learned that moving my laptop through the house with the kids means it’s never where I need it when I have that spare moment to type a few words.
One day I’ll get my office space back, and I might even write an entire novel sitting at my desk. Until then, I’m just grateful for a clean counter and a word count that keeps climbing, page by page.
Mary Taranta writes stories about bloodshed and tears, and in some cases, kissing. Born and raised in rural Ohio, she now lives in the sprawling suburbs of Central Florida wherein she complains about the heat, pays homage to the air conditioner, and prefers to drink her iced tea sweet.
You can find more about Mary on her website, and you can follow her on Instagram and Twitter.
