My Shed of Dreams

This is really silly, but I’ve always wanted a “room of one’s own.” Maybe thanks to Virginia Woolf. Or maybe because I romanticize the idea of a brooding writer hunched over, toiling away, cigarette in one hand, a glass of scotch near the other. The storm outside whipping up.

My husband standing at the sliding glass doors to our house, looking out at me and shaking his head.

I want a place where I can write, yes. But more importantly, a place that’s mine. All mine.

I have a desk in our bedroom. The alarm goes off at 5:30 and I head to the bathroom to pee while my husband pops downstairs with the dog to get the day going.

I hobble back to my desk in my pajamas, ready to write. I do it until 6:30. I have a day job, so I need to head to the shower and get my ass to work.

Sounds like a routine, no? It is. And it’s working, though I dream of quitting my job and writing full time. And while my husband likes to remind me that there are people in Calcutta living seven thick in a one-room paper shack, I still want my own space. I refuse to feel guilty (which, of course, means that I DO feel guilty … sigh).

I’m going to get a shed anyway, damn it all.

My shed looks like it might be a teardrop trailer parked in the backyard by the woodpile. That’s cool with me. It’s going to be my space. Mine! My precious…

Reality tells me that the neighbors will complain when they see that the Joads have unloaded their shack on wheels in their home owners’ association sanctioned space. Reality also says that I’m dumb to give up a warm bedroom in my stocking feet for a cold hike to the back yard in rain, wind, mud …

… yup. I still want it.

There are other voices in my head telling me this is absolutely the most lame thing I’ve ever thought up. But I tell them I’m not alone in wanting a space for my “art,” and that they can just shut the fuck up about it. It doesn’t always work, though. The voices are strong in this one.

So I’m sitting here in my bedroom writing this blog about a writer’s shed that I don’t have yet. This weekend, the hubster and I are starting the hunt. I have all these expectations and desires.

Who knows if the damn thing will even fit.

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