It’s lovely to look at other people’s bookshelves and desks; I could do it all day. I also love any article where writers describe their work habits, or their favorite tools, or where the contents of somebody’s handbag are dumped out, photographed, and annotated.
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Daydreaming about how much writing one would get done if only one’s space were as clean/spare/cozy/colorful/comfortable/resplendent/equipped-with-remote-control-mountaineer’s-harness as someone else’s is, like nearly every form of procrastination, aided immensely by the Internet (aside: Ping-Squirt-Sabbath-Saturdays are a success so far). While virtual home tours cannot replace the intimacy of estate sales or the strange, cookie-dough-candle-scented sterility of open houses, you can look at a whole lot more in less time, and you don’t have to feel quite as creepy about pawing through the silverware of the recently deceased, or taking a home tour when you wouldn’t even have qualified for a subprime loan in 2006. The Internet supersizes fantasies.
Dropped or tossed?
One of the best things I got from the Transient Tour 2009-10 (a period of 11 months where my name wasn’t on a lease) was an ability to write more easily in places that were not my home. In graduate school I always preferred to work at my desk, in silence. I envied my roommate who could bang out beautiful, lyrical chapters of her novel-in-progress even while Extreme Home Makeover: ??ber-Emotionally-Manipulative Wooden-Boats-for-Bedframes Edition played in the background. I still haven’t reached that level of focus, but I’ve come a long way when it comes to working in public places or other people’s guest rooms.
Lots more about Elaine (& Gary) here.
Now, though, the tour is over and I’m putting down semi-permanent roots outside of Boston. I have the opportunity to start fresh with my workspace. My desk has nothing on it yet but my laptop; a small wooden box that holds pens; and a wonky, mustard-colored lamp that needs replacing. But I unpacked entire crates of old desk-related things: office supplies by the boxload (Seriously, does anyone need any stationary? Post-its? Pens that might have a month or two left in them?); quotes and poems and pictures and posters, all meant to move me in some way; tchotchkes and totems that I have a hard time believing did, at any time, anything more than remind me of my own mortality (moving can be a little bit grim, no?). I don’t know. Maybe I’ll hold off on unpacking and let new knickknacks earn their places, crowd around the lamp and penholder. Maybe I’ll finally kick my packrat tendencies and have a nice, spare workspace. Maybe it will be just like in the catalogs–everything perfectly in its place, everything beautiful, nobody there.
*Post title tweaked from Meghan Daum’s new book, Life Would Be Perfect if I Lived in That House.