![]() ![]() Finally I dragged the glass-paned French doors up from the basement, where they’d been stored for 10 years. ![]() Once I had a blank canvas to work with, I bought a desk and a comfortable desk chair, bookcases for my poetry books, a low shelf for my record player and records. We moved their stuffed animals and books into their bedrooms, art supplies and puzzles to the basement, and games into one of the yellow cabinets. They’d outgrown the larger toys at that point, most of which had been passed down to younger cousins, and with some culling, the rest fit elsewhere. And no, they didn’t begrudge me the space. They helped me clean out the playroom turned writing room. I was also showing my son and daughter, 7 and 11 at that time, that their mother’s work is real, that it matters, that it has dignity. I was honoring my creative work by giving it dedicated space. I realized, reclaiming this room in my home, creating a space for my work, that it’s more than practical. ![]()
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