A room of one’s own
When I won a writing competition I thought I could begin to call myself a writer, and so should have a designated space in which to write words that would set the world on fire/make lots of money, or preferably both. (Neither of those things have happened.) I put the prize money towards building a shed and I called it The Wendy House, the title of the story. I justified the expense because it was to be a dual-purpose building; visiting grown-up children or grandchildren could sleep in it if the house was full, and I I bought a sofa bed and new bedding from Next, and furnished it with a cast-off rug from my daughter, an old bookcase, and a wooden desk I’d inherited that wasn’t quite the right height. I put shelves up (well, not me, but DH) and filled them with box files and reference books. A prominent place was given to The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook, bought so that I could find the agents and publishers who would beg to publish my books.
It was like playing with a doll’s house on a large scale, and I was very pleased with it, and its situation overlooking the pond; it was perfect. If I was lost for words I could gaze up the garden or watch the birds. Staring out of the window was research because my novels are set in the country and I need to know things like when the blackthorn first comes into flower, or where the house martins nest. And it was easier to look out of the window than stare at an empty screen …
Publishers and agents did not beat a path to my door, no one wanted to sleep in The Wendy House, and it was more comfortable to sit in the kitchen warmed by the Aga than face a trek down the path to a chilly wooden shed. So, that is one reason why we’re having an extension built and means that I can follow Virginia Woolf’s advice, and at long last, have a room of my own.
