If I had taken this photograph from a broader view, you would see the three piles of stuffed folders sloppily stacked near the wall, and the large, cumbersome toys still neatly kept in their packaging. The former is some of my teaching material that I’ve yet to organize and file properly, and the latter are gifts that were given to my daughter Sophia for her first birthday a few weeks ago.
What has remained as a fixture of my life as a writer is what you see in this picture—my not-entirely comfortable swivel chair, the two computer screens that make revisions easier, my plants that keep me company and the basket of paper that I take some bizarre relish in stuffing to the brim. Amidst the chaos and the space I jokingly refer to as “the new storage room,” I write.
Although the room suffers the typical ebbs and flows of clutter, the bright light that shines through the window is my portal and makes the outside world tangible from where I sit. Within the storm blue walls I can see the possibility of another story, a new character, and ignore the periphery of life’s disarray.