All of my life I have wanted an attic writing room. It's a romantic notion and something that's hard to secure when you don't have the financial means or the neighborhood with such a house. Even though I was laid off from my company in June and had to rescind my offer on a Cape Cod, I lucked out and found a rental house near downtown. It was bright and airy, twice the size of our old bungalow, with hardwood floors and 9-foot ceilings, more windows than I had ever seen (my bedroom was once the sun porch), and an attic "play space" hidden off the second bedroom. Thaddeus and I took one look at the house and rented it immediately. I helped fix up part of it in exchange for lower rent. We nicknamed the attic our Gryffindor Common Room: he would have the main part of it for his toys and an extra bed for napping and reading & guests. We have a little corner for listening to our records. And I carved out the 2nd nook as my writing space.

The bedroom writing space.
The bedroom writing space.

I still can't believe it: I now have two writing rooms. One downstairs, a space at my tried-and-true antique secretary in my bedroom. The desk has been in my family for generations, and I wrote a book of short stories and a novel at that desk. And now one in the attic as I always dreamed. Swivel the chair and look out into the forest and beyond that (in the winters), the old cemetery that features prominently in my first book. You work so hard for so long at something, and suddenly the opportunity is right there in front of you to finally have a room of your own to create your art. Well, I'm sharing it with a 7 year-old, but it's close enough. It will do.

The attic nook, before.
The attic nook, before.
The attic nook, after.
The attic nook, after.

I am typing this from the new desk in the attic. It's raining. There are pages piled beside me to revise. I couldn't be happier. This last month was so emotionally and physically trying: holding it all together through job loss, selling my first house, scrambling to find another, moving, parenting, freelancing, and experiencing a death in the family. The final box was unpacked today. This may only be temporary--months, hopefully at least a year or two--but it's become very clear recently that all things are. I finally feel at home, and now I can do real work.

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