Less than a month after I took up novel writing again, my wife relegated me to the downstairs utility closet. The closet! Who writes in a closet?
At first, I felt hurt, slighted. After all, I supported her creative interests. I help her spool yarn, twirling skein after skein of colored cotton threads, nodding off at the monotony of the task, while she wrapped and swirled the line I fed her into a large ball. I hide my head beneath my pillow some nights while she reads her lovey-dovey books by Nora Roberts, Danielle Steele, and a horde of pseudo-romance writers, allowing her that simple luxury. I hold my tongue while she plucks her so-called ‘bargains’ from shopping bags when she returns from sating her urge to hunt through the sales racks at our local mall.
So why can’t I spend my nights writing at my computer while everyone else is asleep or when I come home from work and have some down time to expend?
Well, naturally, I had over-reacted.
I should’ve known, Jen, would never crush my aspirations to finish my SF novel ~ not so overtly anyway. I should’ve trusted my intuitive and good-natured wife, even though she has systematically booted me and my pc out of the family room, the dining room, and from the desk in our bedroom where I had been doing my writing amongst the family.
But Jen’s’ nesting instinct had kicked in, and although she may have wanted me out of the bedroom so she could drift off to sleep easier without the constant glare of my pc monitor, she had found me the perfect sanctuary in which to write.
She had prepared my haven for me while I was at work, and revealed it to me after dinner.
I knew something was up. During dinner the kids kept grinning at me, bobbing their heads up and down while they chewed their fish sticks. Both of them and Jen kept hold of their secret though.
She scooted the kids off to the family room to watch TV while she lead me over to the utility closet at that back of the kitchen. We called it the broom closet since it held our vacuum, rug scubber, floor mops, extra can goods, and stacked boxes of assorted junk that we hadn’t gotten around to tossing out or toting over to the Goodwill drop off center.
I figured she wanted me to fetch her something for her that was wedge at the back of the closet, or she had found some mess I had that she wanted me to vacuum up. But I was wrong on both accounts, and shocked to see my computer desk and pc all set up inside the closet.
To some the closet would be a pantry. It was wide and deep, heated by three interior walls, and shared one wall with our attached garage. And the lighting wasn’t bad.
Jen must’ve gotten her bother or our neighbor Hal to unhook my pc and lug my desk downstairs. Maybe she enlisted both of their help. I don’t know, I was too stunned to ask her.
It took me a good ten minutes to recover from my initial internal reaction of childish disappointment. Then I noticed the soft plush carpet, the nifty IKEA bought lamp shade she had gotten for the previously bare light bulb that had lighted the room, and the spongy cushion for my chair. I smiled.
"You like it, hon?" she asked like an excited school girl.
The spot was perfect. Quiet, secluded, close to the coffee-maker, fridge and downstairs bathroom. It was roomy enough for me to tilt my chair back and stretch. She had even plugged in my CD player and cellphone charger. I could envision it as my little slice of heaven.
"Of course." I told her. The smile on my face was genuine and wide.
What serious writer wouldn’t?
So here I sit, in the broom closet. Typing away.
