My Writing Room by Kate Furnivall

This post was originally published at Novelicious.com and is now at WritingTipsOasis.com. WritingTipsOasis.com acquired Novelicious.com in June 2022.

I am greedy. I have not one writing room, but two. Well, three actually. And now I come to think about it, it’s more like four. I tell my husband it’s what my muse demands. Blame it on her. He nods understandingly, but as soon as my back is turned he sneaks another of his paintings on to the wall or an extra one of his vintage aircraft models on to a shelf. Like a lion marking territory.

Writing Room Number One is called my study. I must admit it looks like a proper place where a book might emerge, given sufficient sweat and tears. Authorial almost, I like to think. It started off life positively Spartan – a tiny desk, a hard chair, a Canon word-processor, a pot of pens, a pad and … nothing else. No, to be honest there was a small Swedish sofa but that belonged to the cat. That was it. I liked it. Clean, spare and distraction-free. It allowed me to focus with Zen-like calm on the job ahead.

Oh my, how it has changed in the last ten years. My desk morphed into a larger one. There are stacks of paper on it so high that I fear for the Amazon forest, plus ugly chunks of black technology – PC, monitor, scanner, printer. They stare at me, demanding words.

But worse, far worse, is what happened to the walls. Shelves appeared and brought books with them. My husband’s paintings arrived, along with an El Cid film poster – given to me by my son as a teenager and an architectural drawing from my other son. Then there are the three big publicity posters of my first book covers, kindly sent to me by my US publisher from New York after a book-fair. You’re thinking that’s enough, aren’t you?

But I haven’t finished. The coup d’etat occurred when my husband moved in a wall cabinet full of vintage car models. And then I contributed a set of shelves to display my own published books and foreign editions – my “shrine”, as my son so disrespectfully calls it! And don’t start me on the distraction of the huge window that overlooks the garden. The trouble is that I love it all. I smile with pride as I feel the family wrap itself around me. I like sitting in my comfortable director’s chair and spinning myself round to gaze at it all.

There lies the rub! I can’t write in it any more. I can do paperwork there, check emails, even edit, proofread and type up my handwritten manuscript, but I can’t WRITE. So I have retreated upstairs. To Writing Room Number Two. This was my son’s bedroom before he left home for foreign climes, though it is now politely termed a guestroom. But in one corner lurks his old black plywood B&Q desk. It’s hideous. But it suits me just fine. No distractions. Small window. Tucked away in peace and quiet. Perfect.

Writing Rooms Three and Four? Where are they? Well, I know this makes me sound like a lazy slut, but Number Three is my bed. That’s where I start work early each morning, accompanied by a cup of lemon tea from my husband, to get down all my night-time thoughts before they vanish.

And Number Four? That’s my favourite. It’s under the beautiful magnolia tree in my garden, surrounded by camellias and lilies and a rampant Montana clematis at the moment. That’s where I write my best work. My cheery friend, the robin, serenades me from the magnolia’s branches and is as greedy for my biscuits as I am for my Writing Rooms.

The Italian Wife by Kate Furnivall is out now.