My working space is...
small, part of my living/dining/library/music room, overcrowded, but with a great view. The picture is the view out my window every day. Okay, the trees may have more or fewer leaves, the cherry trees might be blooming or not, the grass might be less green at the end of the summer, but every single day I get to see the bridge and the water.
I live where I do (despite the rent and the limited space) because I'm a water baby. Every single day I spend at least a few minutes looking at the ocean right outside my door. I think, mostly, of the ocean as my working space.
But inside the apartment every single thing is set up as inspiration for writing. My desk is tidy - most of the time. I have four pieces of art above my desk - a large piece by Weisbuch with a violinist and an angel reaching for him. The title is L'ange est venu c'est soir (the angel comes this evening) and it's all about the muse or inspiration. I have a piece by Shimoda - a twist on Japanese calligraphy, called Verse. And I have a piece by Anton Tapies, a Spanish compatriot of Picasso. Abstract and dark but filled with hope - it's a window, looking out from (or to) the world, the world of the Spanish civil war. And I have a drawing a dear friend did for me of Paris. All of these pieces are windows for me, and inspiration.
As for the great room - as I laughingly call it - I have my desk, filled to the brim with files and boxes and three ring binders and books. One wall is filled floor to ceiling with crammed full bookshelves and I have bookshelves on two of the smaller walls as well. I have my cello and music. I have my writing chair - a big comfortable chair by the window and where I often do my first drafts by hand. I have Sam - my ever-so-sexy new computer - named after Sam Elliott. I have a small dining table. I have, not including the four pieces of art over my desk, another 23 pieces of art on my walls. Floor to ceiling, basically, on the few walls that aren't covered with bookshelves and above the bookshelves on the walls that are. As you can imagine, this leaves not much room for anything else.
But I love my space. I have friends who want to spend time in my space when I'm away because they think it's a perfect space for a writer. So do I.
The only problem with my space?
It's a little small and every time I sell another book, I end up with boxes of books, piles of paperwork, and even less space for anything else. I have this terrible feeling that I'm going to have to move, but I'm resisting. Being this close to the beach makes it worth every time I have to move three things to get at the tool box at the bottom of the closet or squish one more thing into a too-full bookshelf.