New spot for word gathering
I’m writing from my office. The same office I’ve written the previous 92 “Where I’m Writing From” columns, but the next one will be different. The next time I pen a column, story or novel, I’ll be doing so from a new space.
The new office will be on the other end of our recently remodeled basement. The eastern side of the house, that’s where I’ll set up shop.
The view is different over there. The wall facing the lake will be floor-to-ceiling glass. I’ll finally have real, built-in bookshelves instead of the crumbling particle-board ones I’ve hauled around since college. If the carpenter can pull it off, there will also be a secret passageway built into the shelves that leads to my “archives” (which are really just a growing collection of filing cabinets full of first drafts).
Yes, of course, I’m excited about the upgrades (I’m also still on the hunt for a stained-glass door; if you have one you’re looking to unload, let me know), but the new office is also terrifying.
I’m a creature of habit and superstition. I come by these traits naturally. My dad rides his bike 20-some-odd miles, first thing, every morning. My mom still tosses spilled salt over her shoulder and spits anytime a black cat crosses her path.
As I’ve gone about packing up my old office — taking down the dartboard and the framed Portis letter, and pulling my kids’ art from the walls — I’ve worried about damaging the magic inherent in my sacred space.
What if, even though all the old parts are there, the new office doesn’t have the same juice, the same soul?
My old office was simple. It had concrete floors and unfinished walls, yet I wrote thousands — no, millions — of words in that place. What if, when the new construction is complete, the words won’t flow?
Stephen King speaks of a similar fear in his memoir/craft book “On Writing.” For King, the problem was a result of a new desk. Out went the “child’s desk” he’d
written on for years, and in came “a massive oak slab that dominated the room.”
For six years, King wrote on that desk “like a ship’s captain in charge of a voyage to nowhere.” Somewhere in there, he finally sobered up, got rid of that “monstrosity,” and replaced it with a much smaller desk. The rest, as they say, is history.
My situation is a little different. If the new office doesn’t work out, I can’t start tearing down walls and ripping out bookshelves — my wife would kill me.
So, what’s a writer to do? Write.
If you’re a reader of this column, you know I’ve written from many locations outside my office. I’ve written from Row 15, seat F aboard a Delta Airlines flight. I’ve written from the car while my wife was in Sam’s Club. I’ve written from a juvenile correctional facility, a pontoon boat and hotel rooms across the country.
Though the view from my new office will be different, the process remains. As superstitious as we authors are about our craft, the truth is every book, every page, every line is written in the same way — one word at a time. Eli Cranor is the nationally bestselling, Edgar Award-winning author of “Don’t Know Tough” and “Ozark Dogs.”He can be reached using the“Contact”page at elicranor.com.