We’re moving again. But only about five miles up the road. After growing up on a farm in South Georgia and living in the same house until I was an adult, I’ve moved a lot in my life. On the farm, we didn’t own the old house we lived in but my daddy bought a cute little house in town and decided to retire and move my mama (and me, the last remaining child at home and the baby of seven children). The move was quick and during the last bit of winter. I remember one night when I was at the old house, packing what was left and cleaning up. It was near sunset and the woods and fields seemed to be hushed in a golden expectation. I’d only ever lived in this old, rickety, cold, drafty house. Too many memories, both good and bad, swirled around me in the growing darkness. That farm was my imaginary playground, a place to dream big and run wild. But I had hated most of my time there. Years later, I appreciated it more than I had when I was younger. My husband bought me a painting by a local artist of an old farmhouse that reminded me of my home, yard dog and all. I still have that painting. The picture below reminds me of where I lived. Our house was bigger and had a big front porch. When my parents learned I wanted to be a writer, they gave me a typewriter for Christmas. I sat at a window with a view out onto our vegetable garden and the crossroads that ran by our house. I wrote a lot of bad poetry and highly dramatic teen love stories sitting at that window!
When we moved to town, I had a nice room with my own bathroom. Felt like a castle but it was a small cottage that I’d come back to live in later with my husband and daughter. Again, I had a room with a view to my mama’s new, beautiful garden. I loved that little cottage. When we moved to Atlanta, we lived in apartments where the views were mostly parking lots. But my husband always made sure I had a place to write. One more move back to South Georgia and we had a little house near a mill pond. My office was in the middle of the house, but I could see out windows on both sides. Then we moved to Louisiana and after two more apartments, we finally bought a starter home that had a nice living room up front. My husband built bookshelves out of cedar and placed a tiny desk in the center so I could write. We had a big window up there so I could look out at the trees and street. In our next house, he planted a live oak and a rose just outside my office window. I watched both grow and cried when we moved yet again. But the next house was my dream home. A Tudor-style two-story with a huge backyard. I had a front window that overlooked our azaleas and tall pines, crape myrtles and camellia bushes. I felt as if I were in my own treehouse. Now we’ve been in Florida for a few years and I have a tiny upstairs office with a pretty good view. I’ve written more books here than I ever imagined but I’m blessed to be able to sit here each day and do something I love.
Now, we’ve moving from our little townhouse on the bay to a one-story roomier house just a few miles from here and still close to the Gulf and the bay. I’ll have a corner office with doors that open out into the entry hall, the den and the kitchen. A room with a different view. I fell in love with it because I can see all the way to the backyard since the house has glass doors in the breakfast room and den. I have found as long as I have a window or some light coming in, I can be happy. I hope to plant pretty trees and flowers in my new yard so I can have some of God’s beautiful nature to inspire me as I write.
Writers love inspiration and nature is one of the best views to help a creative person. The sunlight, a rain storm, snow softly falling or a misty morning fog–these elements of nature help us to get in the mood to create our own inspirational scenes. We have to have a room with a view. I’m blessed that I’ve had several wonderful views of life from my little writing world. How about you? Do you have a favorite spot in your home where you can escape and create, or just sit and read?