My husband just built this beautiful front porch. We tore down the old rickety porch – more of a front deck really – and built this from the ground up. The view from the white rocker is gravel road and rolling cornfields – the perfect writing spot, a friend said. Yes.
I hadn’t even thought about the front porch as a writing spot. Since we moved to the country last fall, I’ve been so focused – overwhelmed might be a better description – on the inside of the neglected 1905 farmhouse that I hadn’t given much thought to what the outside could offer. We writers need a writing “space” and that is different for every writer. I have always had the notion I needed what Virginia Woolf called a “room of her own” with four walls, a door, and all the writing amenities Office Depot could offer: computer, printer, file cabinets, bookcases, message boards, shelves of paper and notebooks and pens – so many pens!
The renovations have taken much longer than I anticipated. My “room of my own” has been a half-hazard mess, up the steepest flight of stairs imaginable, into the coldest (in the winter) to, in mid-July, the now hottest room in the house. I hated it. Avoided it. My writing, along with my spirit, waned. How could I write without a room! I moaned to my husband.
One project finished, then another, then finally he began the front porch this spring. I wasn’t interested. I had become used to living without using the front door. What did I need it now for? I watched out the front window as he set the posts, then frame. Tongue and groove boards joined together to make a floor, then white spindle railings and, finally, the hand rail. I had a porch.
I brought back an old white rocker from the Ozark home of my childhood, and knew immediately it was going on the front porch. Once home, I set the rocker down, walked off the porch and to the road in front of our home. I needed a wider angle view of the porch, a different vantage point. I needed to look at the porch in a different way.
Then my friend, when seeing the white rocker looking out from the covered porch, said, “The perfect place to write!” Of course. Why couldn’t I see that? It didn’t have a computer or printer or bookcases or file cabinets or any of the amenities I thought I needed. It didn’t even have a flower pot yet. Just a simple front porch with an old white rocker. Simple as that.
Do you have a favorite place to write? What makes it special?
Do you think you need a “perfect” place to write? Where do you think you’ll find it?