The Yellow Room

Last week I wrote about spaces that famous authors have lived and wrote in. I said I would invite you into a former writing space of mine, so here it is:

I knew happiness whenever I entered my Anne of Green Gables loft with yellow paint that complemented the Jack Vettriano hanging above my bed. The angled skylight amplified the sound of West Coast rain drumming me to sleep many a night; the south-facing window offered a cropped view of paragliders sailing effortlessly through the skies above Victoria’s Dallas Road. They say different spaces make you feel different ways, and I felt home when I turned the knob of that bedroom door I was almost too tall to walk through. I remember the morning sun streaming through the blinds, making patterned rainbows on my wall that could be the subject of an Impressionist painting; the smell of the ocean when I opened the window and let the salty Pacific air waft through my fairytale space in all its glory. I even had a little writer’s desk that looked towards the ocean that I couldn’t see as much as I could sense. I couldn’t have asked for a better space. I think I could almost endure windowless, dreary basement suites for the rest of my life because I had one year in that yellow room—a room of my own, thank you Virginia Woolf. It made me want to write in it and about it, although I wish I had written less fact and more fiction. I got through grad school pouring copious cups of tea for myself while poring over books, articles, and notes that ate up all my energy for creative leftovers, every last drop, and what little I saved I brought to the ocean to contemplate, rejuvenate, and forget.

Okay, so I tend to be a bit melodramatic when I write for myself (this was an excerpt from my journal), but from looking at the room, does it not live up to the image I painted of it? I think so. Oh how I miss that yellow room, that space that apparently I grew so exhausted in writing academically that I gave up on writing creatively, although what was I thinking? When will I have such an inspiring place again, or so much mental stimulation?

What’s your writing space? Do you have “a yellow room?”

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3 thoughts on “The Yellow Room

  1. I can see how you could wax lyrical about the room. The desk is situated in such a great spot, the colours are relaxing and it’s refreshingly uncluttered compared to my room which is full of DVDs, games, books, and manga. I need to declutter.

  2. I haven’t a yellow room. Not yet. I have a stilted dinner table, the kind you prop up infront of yourself while wasting before the television, and a nice leather chair. The walls are yellow, the windows are limited, the quiet is nonexistent, the boob tube drones on. It’s a sort of wreck where suburban family life collides with the uncontrolled tendencies of a wishful writer. You end up with an unfocused daydreamer with a laptop and a blog.

    I envy that space you had.

  3. Thanks both of you for sharing about your rooms – I’m beginning to see that perhaps that yellow room was an anomaly as far as inspiring and clean writing oases go! Yet I think/hope beauty can still find its way out of the too often chaos and reality of cluttered, distracted spaces where life happens — I hope this is the case for you.

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