The thought of deconstructing my studio space book-by-book, inspiration-by-inspiration, packing them away, carting their heavy bodies off to some as-yet-unknown location, and painstakingly re-assembling the lot is an awful concept to ponder for even two seconds. While the physical contents of my creative life will be carried to this new place, the sense of energy and safety that I’ve enjoyed here, in this spot, for 3 years, are nontransferable. They cannot be put back together again, but must develop organically in a new form that might not be instantly or easily recognizable.
I require a lot from my creative surroundings. Aside from practical considerations of size and wall space and aesthetics, most of my needs are psychological: a logical necessity that somehow manages to defy many points of logic. It doesn’t matter, though. I need what I need in order to write, to create, to be. To be, what? Effective, fertile, happy, productive. I’m drawn to this subject every time a move is on the horizon, when my well-being is jeopardized, scattered, marginalized. That time is almost here. I thought it would be nice to share part of this with you, as it illuminates another of the many over-looked facets of being a writer (or reader). So much of the creative process is odd, hidden, never discussed. Maybe we think that people, including other writers, only want to hear about the practicalities of writing and editing and marketing; about characterization and plots and publishing. I think most of us know that the truth is stranger and more fruitful than that: this truth, so universal, is also boring, terrifying, lyrical, sad, and hopeful. So, let’s do this. Let us look at writing and creating from unexpected angles. Showing the dust in the corners of the literary world is, after all, what this blog is all about.
How important is sense of space to your creative process?