Apple. Amazon. My first book. What do they have in common?
They were all started in a garage.
Writer’s block. It had become the bad friend I couldn’t lose. I grew in my desperation. Every room of my house seemed to offer a new toy, a new task that demanded my attention, a new reason not to write.
I live in the Deep South. The temps are finally becoming bearable again. So I disappeared into the only covered space left in our home.
Step 1: Remove the car from the garage.
Step 2: Groan at how much junk I own.
Step 3: Move a bunch of the junk I own.
Step 4: Sweep.
Step 5: Sweep again. Bonus points for big, hairy spiders!
Step 6: Settle in and write.
Last weekend, I followed these steps and blasted early 2000s hits to resurrect the details that will form the first chapters of my book. And, I’m not kidding, it worked like a charm.
So, now, bigger questions loom.
- Did I just get lucky, or has the garage been the key to focus all along?
- Should I commit myself to a new creative space and make room for my desk?
- Will the big, hairy spiders be my demise?
As I type this post, I look around. I see broken paint. Dead lightbulbs. And memories I can’t bring myself to sell.
But the room is my own. I think all writers need that.
And it’s pretty incredible to know that the love that challenges this writer is just beyond the damaged walls.
One Year Ago: Go, Sell, and Give*
Two Years Ago: The Other Side