If you saw the room I write in you’d say, “Oh you poor thing, it’s a wonder you can get anything done in there.” It used to be an unfinished room off of our bedroom and over the garage with built-in cabinets (circa 1950s) with linoleum countertops that sparkled gold.
I used to keep my clothes in those cabinets and in the winter I’d dash in and get what I needed for the day and bring them into our room to get to room temperature. Especially the undies.
Then we ripped everything out, had drywall installed, an air duct and carpeting. The computer is in that room and at times it can be a nice environment, but mostly I dump my clothes everywhere and pay the bills at the desk and try to decipher all the little notes laying around with writing ideas.
When my friend, Henry, was in better shape he’d come up every day and sleep in this room.
If he and I were up here and I was having a good writing moment, I’d spin in my chair and belt out a little Alicia Keys to him.
“Henry, this girl is on fiiiiiiiiire…………”
If I was having a normal writing day, I’d spin in my chair and say, “Geez, Henry, what the hell am I trying to say? Help me out, Bud. I haven’t a clue where I’m going with this.”
He’d cock his head the way dogs do when you talk to them, look at me for a minute and then lay his head back down.
Henry’s hips haven’t allowed him to travel up the stairs in over a year and so I’m flying solo in my messy clothes/bill paying/writing room………..
Sometimes on fire but more often floundering, and wishing my partner’s weary bones could make the climb and keep me company.
