On Home Author Jane Harper’s study may not be camera-ready but it’s perfect for writing novels.
My spare room isn’t much, but two novels have now emerged from amid the chaos, cups and crumbs.
‘Somehow, two novels have appeared out of this cramped, poorly lit, utilitarian room.’
Iam embroiled in a stand-off with a journalist from Sweden. She hopes I will crack; I hope she is prepared for a long wait. We have been building to this moment for several months, since we first met to discuss a piece she was writing about the Swedish release of my first novel, The Dry.
“I would love to take some photos of your creative workspace,” she said.
“Ah, I see. The problem is, I don’t really have a ‘creative workspace’ as such.”
“I thought,” she said, fixing me with her cool Scandinavian gaze over the rim of her coffee cup, “that you worked from home.” A long pause. “I do.” “So you create your books from a workspace within your home?”
Another pause. I took a deep sip before answering. “I suppose.”
When she smiled, her icy blue eyes lit up like a Nordic fjord. “Then that would be perfect.”
I had no choice. I had to nip this in the bud. “I’m sorry. Whatever you are imagining it looks like…” I leaned in. “You’re wrong.”
She didn’t believe me. She still doesn’t, judging by her continued enthusiasm for photographing the alleged creative hub of my home. I suspect that her curiosity at my robust refusal long ago outweighed her professional interest. But for now, at least, it won’t be happening. To be fair to her, I don’t know exactly what she’s imagining. To be fair to me, the workspace in my home is just that – a space in which to work.
Before my first novel was written, this space was mostly referred to as ‘the spare room’. It’s not a particularly attractive room. It’s not crammed with interesting objects to spark discussion and trains of thought, and it is certainly not – unfortunately – what even the most generous observer could possibly describe as inspirational. It’s not even that well lit. But it does have a desk and a computer and a door that shuts. And when I am on deadline and under pressure, I’ve found, that’s what counts.
It’s a room very much grounded in all the mundane practicalities of word counts and rewrites and too many tea-and-biscuit breaks. The keys on the keyboard stick. I tell myself it’s because of overuse from my disciplined writing schedule, but it’s possibly something to do with all the crumbs.
The desk bears loud echoes of my former life as a print journalist on a daily newspaper, where I always felt a chaotic desk was a busy desk. There are scraps of paper floating around, numbers and thoughts are scribbled on the nearest thing to hand, and it is all set against a backdrop of an endless parade of empty mugs.
I know I could clean it in minutes, make it look more fresh and inviting, but I rarely do. I keep the desk the way it is because, in my own way, I find it reassuring. When I worked on a newspaper, I didn’t need inspiration to
write. I just needed a computer, a news story and a deadline. Now, faced with creating my own stories, I find myself drawing heavily on that experience. I have the computer, I have the deadlines. If I recreate the chaos, the stories will surely come. That’s the theory, at least.
The room also has a bookcase. (“Perhaps…” said the Swedish journalist, extending an olive branch. “Perhaps a photo of your personal book collection?”) I feel disappointed with myself that I’m not on firmer ground here. I love to read, and read across a range of genres. Somehow, my bookshelves refuse to reflect this.
My favourite books never seem to find their way onto the shelves for any length of time – they are lent, or were borrowed in the first place. Some of them have to be returned to the library, or else I read them years ago and no longer seem to own a copy. Mediocre books are moved on quickly, to friends or family who’ve shown interest or the op shop. And so my bookshelves become an oversized to-be-read pile, full of the books I haven’t quite got around to. They greet me each morning with the faint whiff of judgement.
Sometimes I wonder why I am so resistant to a visit from the Swedish journalist. Would it really be so bad to wash up the mugs and let her peruse the bookshelves over a cup of tea? I could show her how the scribbled notes on scraps of paper become a broader idea, and explain how the small window and boring white walls keep me focused on the screen and my writing.
I know it is not what she expects, but perhaps that’s no bad thing. Somehow, two novels have appeared out of this cramped, poorly lit, utilitarian room. So somewhere, hidden among the empty mugs, there must be something at least a little bit inspirational.