A few weeks ago, we moved the old, oak writing desk upstairs to our bedroom. It’s been a migrating piece of furniture since we moved here three years ago. We’ve got 1800 square feet, occupied by five adults, and I’m always fidgeting around with the space – trying to make better use of it, yes, but also trying to find a place of my own.

To write.

Do all writers have a vision of their writing space? Some sort of ideal?

Mine’s a little rustic and romantic, the floor piled high with towers of books, a desk with an oldish swing arm lamp, and maybe a chair to sink in.

Moving the desk to our bedroom is a step toward some privacy, some quiet, a place to retreat when the downstairs living gets loud or the space too close.

In truth, there’s only been a wee bit of writing done here so far. As a large, flat surface, it’s been ideal for stacking piles of clean laundry, craft projects, and wrapping Christmas presents.

It takes time for a space – or a dream – to evolve. So I am patient.

I coax myself into believing and doing. It’s a private conversation I’ve had often. Still, Christmas has now come and gone and this morning is silent. The desk is clear and newly dusted.

If I’m lucky, some sun will dapple my pages each morning. The light, I suspect, will help me find the right words.

I’ve even cleaned out each of the three drawers, reclaiming these small pieces of real estate for my pens. Paper. Journals. Bits and scraps of memory too small to keep anywhere else.

Moving the bills, the checkbook, stamps, and envelopes downstairs and out of the desk changed its vibe from work-a-day responsibility to some sort of curved and claw-footed work of art.

There’s creativity waiting in this desk.

It’s as clearly mine as if I’d carved my name in the smooth oak wood.

Well then, no more excuses.

Time to write.