A Space of My Own (From "Newt Kincaid Blogspot" September 29, 2019)

I've had the most unproductive last few weeks of my life. I've written nothing. Not a word. Not a blog. Not a haiku. Nothing.

Since my writing tool of choice is a typewriter and I am writing a romance novel, I was playing with the idea of doing a blog entry equating each style of typewriter with a romantic hero. Sort of a list of what typewriter each hero archetype would use. For example:

Olympia SM3 (my primary typewriter): Big, solid, strong, chrome trim =Alpha, Bad Boy, Biker Hero.

Remington: Rugged, American made = Cowboy hero, etc.

I tried to articulate what I was thinking to my honey, but it didn't make sense when I described it aloud, so I scrapped that idea.

Then I remembered that I rent a shared office space, that I rarely visit, near my home. I walked over there this morning, afraid my passkey wouldn't work since I haven't used it in so long. When I arrived, I found that the building was totally empty. The lights were off and everything.

I assumed I would walk in and find some neighborhood creative sitting at one of the tables, wearing headphones, sipping a cup of chai, banging away at their WIP. But no. There is nobody here.

So here I am writing - writing nonsense that will further no cause and garner no praises, but writing nonetheless. This got me to thinking about writing spaces.

What is my ideal writing space?

The room I am sitting in now looks kind of like a loft. It has white walls and scuffed, Caribbean blue painted floors.

If I had known I would be alone in here, I would have brought one of my typewriters - the ultra-portable, Singer one. Hearing the clacking of typewriter keys makes me feel like I am truly working - especially since I have to press the keys a certain way, sharp and quick, to make words appear. It's like every word fights to come into the world when I use my typewriter, and thus deserves to be seen for a moment, even if I decide to edit the word later.

One of the things that has made it so hard for me to write at home is that, in my residence, I am surrounded by reminders of things I feel I should be doing instead of writing (cleaning out the room in the back, washing the dishes, etc.) I'm also reminded of all the other roles I play, which sometimes yanks me out of my writing role. There is no space in my crib that solely says WRITER.

Even the little table where my typewriter sits is littered with trading cards and small toys - a happy reminder that I procreated an adorable human being, but a sad reminder that he doesn't have any clean socks and I really should do some laundry.

The writing cabinet my honey put together for me years ago so that I could have a dedicated writing space, is now stuffed with important papers, old mail and school supplies. The little printer shelf that pulls out has collapsed with the weight of the stuff that gets thrown in the cabinet.

The outer shelves have become a catch all for keys and loose change, instead of the writing craft books I had envisioned.

Sitting here in this rented work space without the visual reminders of my other life had almost convinced me that I should use this space more. But then a lady walked in and sat down at the table near the window...and started talking loudly on her phone.