This may seem a little austere, but I'd love to partake in some serious writing and thinking in this workspace of writer E.B. White. Some may see an empty space, sparse and rudimentary, but in it I see a readymade canvas ripe with possibilities--a space for thought and imagination, for developing and molding ideas to fulfill a creative, spirited slant. A site for daydreaming plots and character flaws, a room where one can pace back and forth in, amble around while lost in thought: hearing the floorboards creak underfoot, seeing the cobwebs dangle and the spiders weave, and feeling a bold thrill when the wind breezes through the wide-open window--the smell of outside air a welcome revival for the weary senses. Ambient light mirroring the body's circadian rhythms, as if whispering the time constraints (dawn and dusk, only); a rigid wooden bench urging movement of body and mind. Solace and continuity.
But most of all, this desolate-seeming workspace is a fitting reprieve from everyday distractions: the cellphone and the Internet; and on occasion, people. Writing is hard work--it's a temperamental business, especially with distractions everywhere that masquerade as modern daily conveniences. Sometimes another's voice can be the breaking point between concentration and the loss of thought; a text message can be an aberration; the Internet so loud that the mind clogs with an endless barrage of others' wordiness, in particular, rampant self-promotion over quality and content. It's an overstimulating technicolor gleam. Not all the time, but sometimes. I myself feel the pull, down the dark rabbit hole of it all. Not every day, but on some days. Distracted, the writer sighs; she grumbles and drags herself, heavy-footed, back to the drawing board...
Perhaps writing is one task where I'd love to be completely alone: solitary and lost in thought, a laptop sans Internet, my imagination flitting through cracks in the floor, encompassing the sparse accommodations, the senses alight.