For many years, I posted the same cartoon on social media every December. It features a woman sitting on Santa’s lap, reading her Christmas wish list. “… And I also need a gripping opening sentence, help with my 14th and 28th chapters, an agent with excellent connections in the publishing world, and a home office with a door.”
I didn’t share it this year because, after 17 years as a freelance writer and author, I finally have a home office with a door.
I’ve spent my career working in our unfinished downstairs rec room. The boys called it the playroom because that’s what they did there. They built gigantic Lego creations, set up Hot Wheels tracks and played video games. It’s where they hosted sleepovers and movie parties.
Meanwhile, I sat at a battered hand-me-down desk that once belonged to my father-in-law, next to an old filing cabinet snagged from my husband’s business.
My desk faced wobbly 1970s-era faux pine paneling. Lighting consisted of a series of cheap gooseneck desk lamps that teetered precariously atop the previously mentioned filing cabinet.
Without a door and no drawers in my desk, I’d leave the room and return to find my carefully arranged notes scattered across the room and my pens AWOL.
Cats enjoy few things more than knocking things off flat surfaces.
I churned out thousands of articles and columns from that room, but thankfully, when it came to pen books or bigger projects, I had kind friends who offered me private, quiet spaces for work.
As our family grew, other projects superseded my longing for an actual home office. My husband had a deck to build and a shed to create, the boys’ rooms needed finishing, the living room needed new flooring, and a second bathroom was vital.
Derek completed each job with great attention to detail, and every project turned out fantastic.
Our youngest son accepted a teaching job in Texas nearly three years ago, and Derek hoped to finally build an office for me because he truly loves home -improvement projects – and me. Unfortunately, his osteoarthritis limited his mobility and energy, and hip replacement surgery loomed.
So, reader, I took matters into my own hands. A friend referred me to a contractor, and I made an appointment for him to meet us at the house. Then I told Derek.
Though disappointed he wouldn’t be able to do the project himself, he agreed to talk to the contractor with me. They hit it off like I knew they would.
Almost a year later, work began. I chose Zachary’s former bedroom for my office. The ceiling hadn’t been finished since an earlier remodel, and the blue indoor/outdoor carpet had been there since our oldest two sons shared the space.
It also had a window facing our backyard. Finally, I’d have natural light and an office with a lovely view!
Work began in August, and when I dithered over choices that came up, wanting to defer to my husband, the contractor gently reminded me, “This is your office. You get to decide.”
And I did. I chose soft gray paint, white trim and a laminate floor that mirrored the warmth of the pine tongue-and-groove ceiling. Honestly, I would have been happy with any ceiling, but Derek lobbied for the upgrade, and I’m glad I listened.
In late September, he put together the desk I’d purchased years ago in anticipation of my new digs. Its L-shape offers plenty of room for notes on the smooth black surface. When I tire of sitting, I can use its stand-up option.
I had a matching bookshelf delivered, chose a cozy chair and a lamp for the corner, and hung art I’d saved just for this space.
Every morning, when I take my mug of coffee to my desk, I smile. My notes are right where I left them the night before – my pens and paperclips, present and accounted for.
The view from the window feeds my soul no matter the weather. When the sun beats down, I lower the blinds, but usually, I leave them up. I’ve watched the leaves swirl down into the garden. I’ve seen the rain drizzle or pour and watched snow slowly shroud the deck.
I love everything about this room, but my favorite thing might be the newly painted white door with its shiny gold knob. When Derek’s home and I have phone interviews or looming deadlines, I shut it with a satisfying click. Unlike our cats, Freya and Walter, he doesn’t stand outside and scratch and whine until I open it.
My 60th birthday may be approaching, but I finally have a room of my own, and oh, it was worth the wait.
Cindy Hval 