Writing Space

I've been running around this morning trying to figure out if I like my new writing space. My experience with home writing spaces in the past has not been so great. It's been a tiny desk with a tiny chair--a tiny blue fabric and black plastic and rusted metal chair my father bought me in high school in the hopes that I'd do some homework--and it's always seemed too...childish. 

My new writing space is very adult. An espresso wood desk with three drawers and brushed nickel drawer knobs, sturdy, curve lined legs, and a sleek, almost glossy desktop with room for more than a glass of water and half a keyboard. Next to the writing space is my vision board, complete with a million-dollar bill, a house on a golf course, a vacation home in Hawaii, beautiful sunsets around the world, triumphant fists raised in joy and excitement of capitalizing on the moment, sandy beach shores, green grasses of baseball stadiums, and my name on the NY Times Best Sellers List. Now it's time to live up to it all.

As much as the space I have to write in is exactly what I've created, it's a little intimidating. Now I have everything I said I needed in order finish this book, and it's time to do it. Can I write what I think I can?  Will people even read it? And if they do, will they see what I mean for them to see? I guess that's not what the writing is about anyway. It's more for you to pull whatever it is that means something to you out. Isn't that what we do with books, anyway? We always have the freedom to see something other than the author's intent, and maybe only then have we really gotten something out of the book, anyway.

So as I think about it now, yes, I like my new writing space. I look out into the little backyard, and I can see the flowers on the sill (if I close my eyes because I haven't put up the planter just yet), and the desk and the cat perched on the desk, and the vision board, all in my peripheral vision because what's in front of me is the writing. And the writing is all the space I need.