If all goes as planned, we’ll probably move to a new house this year. I keep thinking about whether I might like to find a corner of the place to call an office, but the more I think about it, the less I want one.
I don’t really have an office right now. I write when I can, on the laptop, on the tablet or a spiral notebook. I sit in my chair or on the couch or occasionally in the kitchen. I usually have people or animals running around me, making noise or engaging in shenanigans. The TV or at least some music is usually on.
When I think of an office in my home, I envision myself in a smallish room. It’s quiet, except for whatever music I put on. Everything but me is still. Well, Max the Cat would probably be there, too, because he can’t abide a closed door between us. He flips out.
So, just me and the cat and probably some music and that blinking cursor on the screen. The more I think about it, the lonelier it sounds. Can I even write in a place where I feel isolated? I concentrate better when the house is quiet, but I don’t want isolation, not from the kids, etc.
Really, the only reason I would want an office is for the occasional phone call and probably for storage of papers and various office supplies.
For now and the next house, I’ll stick to my recliner and the couch and the bed or wherever else I decide to sit. Maybe when I get old and more crotchety, I’ll want to hole up in my own room.