I’ve received some comments that the blog has been too heavy with videos of 
late. Sorry. I thought they were apropos of the events of the day. Besides, they make a nice break from my droning, witless observations day in, day out. Nevertheless, I aim to please, so in a craven attempt to placate those critics, I offer this instead:
The subject of one’s space as a conduit for creativity came up recently. There are many theories on how one can best optimize their work environment, so as to enhance the creative flow. Paint the walls blue, have plants in strategic locations (supposedly to increase oxygen levels and thereby increase brain function), orient the space with the pole star, play soothing music in the background, have interesting things on your desk to play with when you can’t think, work in a pyramid, a circle, a hyperbaric chamber, or a tree house.
Yeah, OK.
I work in the basement. Mind you, it’s a nice basement. It’s finished specifically to fill the role of home office. I have a window of sorts; the walls are a cheery pale yellow. The furniture is blonde colored wood laminate that lends an air of lightness. I have a huge whiteboard on which to brainstorm, a conference table, a phone, a network, a bathroom, a fax, and a Swingline stapler—albeit a black one—pretty much everything you need to be productive. So last week, I went to look at office space.
Huh?
Yup. I was feeling cramped and isolated in my basement, and felt it was having a negative effect on my writing. So I sallied forth in search of a solution. And there are many, many solutions to be had, especially when you live in a large metropolitan area. The very professional, competent, young woman who guided me on my tour of offices at a nearby professional building, pointed out the many benefits of renting a space there. The business lounge, the fully stocked kitchen, the professional reception staff, the beautiful décor, and so on. I listened intently, making notes, and silently planning where I would put my plant—I think on top of the bookcase.
Laden with brochures, price sheets, lists of benefits, and a new pen, I walked merrily back to my car, daydreaming about how productive I would be in my new office. I went home, humming a jaunty tune, and began to gather the various items I would need to stock my center of productivity. Pens, computer, paper, books, mustn’t forget the stapler! Then the music stopped. The habit of penny-pinching I developed over years of running a small business reared its ugly head and shouted, “Child, please!”
I put the stapler down.
Did I really think that spending a couple hundred extra bucks a month was going to help me write? I had to admit that the answer was no. In fact, the only space I need to worry about is the one between my ears. Writing is hard work. If you ever have a few hours to kill, buy a writer a drink and ask him about it. But it’s no harder than digging a ditch, or balancing a column of figures. It only requires the doing, lifting that next shovelful of dirt.
I look at the picture of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn that sits on my desk and see his disapproving stare, disapproving of my frivolity. He wrote in the Gulag. Afterward he wrote under constant threat of re-imprisonment or worse. His work changed the world. I only hope my work will change me.
I can write in the basement.
