My Room With a View

You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?

Truthfully, I’ve never had a proper space dedicated to reading or writing. My words have always had to find me where they could—between sips of coffee, while waiting for an appointment, or parked crookedly in the corner of a lot with the engine still running. I jot down notes for character development in single subject spiral notebooks or journals I grab while on line at Home Goods. I scribble—and I do mean scribble—half-formed thoughts I’m afraid will disappear if I don’t trap them fast enough. Some days I take screenshots of something that sparks me and layer text over it, just so I don’t forget the little nugget I stumbled across. 

There are days when a blog idea arrives fully formed, demanding immediate attention. Those are the ones you don’t negotiate with. I’ve pulled into parking lots to write entire pieces because the fear of losing my original point was louder than the honking cars around me. Some blogs have been born in my laundry room, spoken softly into voice notes on my phone while socks tumbled nearby (and plotting their escape from my dryer). You truly never know where my brain kernels might start to pop.

But given the chance, I’d retreat to the space I’ve already built a hundred times over in my mind. I dream big—and in specifics. Some days I can smell the fresh paint on the walls as I open my laptop and begin to type. 

The view is an ocean, stretching endlessly in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. No panes. No grids. Just sheer glass, uninterrupted, so nothing competes with the water beyond it. The only movement comes from rolling waves and slow-drifting clouds that seem to nod knowingly as they hover over the salt air. Maybe a couple wanders by, walking their dog, unbothered and unhurried.

I go back and forth between a simple desk made of vintage surfboards or one crafted from reclaimed wood. Either one speaks to me. What matters most is that it holds one of the many coffee mugs I rotate through—designs ranging from Bob’s Burgers characters to my college logo to our high school football team. Each one tells its own small story, just like the words I’m trying to catch.

A custom sound system is built into the room, quietly shuffling through playlists and motivational pieces I’ve collected over the years. Black-and-white photos from my life line the side walls—moments frozen in time, grounding me. Behind my desk sits a full, fluffy pale yellow couch, draped in layers of cornflower blue blankets. Oversized, comfy-chic pillows balance the space, inviting pauses, rereads, and the occasional stare-out-the-window moment.

Maybe one day that room will exist beyond my imagination. Or maybe it already does—just not in four walls and a perfect view. Because the truth is, my writing has never waited for ideal conditions. It shows up in parking lots, laundry rooms, coffee lines, and quiet moments I almost miss. And maybe that’s the real space I’ve built: one where words know they’re always welcome, no matter where I am when they decide to arrive.