Why work from home, when you can work from a garden shed?
I’m a writer. This is not as mysterious and mystical an art as people believe.
It usually consists of swearing, staring at walls, pacing, translating briefs into something comprehensible, glaring at vague points in the distance, and Googling forgotten grammar explanations.
It’s also a job that keeps you far away from people, because once you’re elbow deep in writing, any interruption results in at least a 20-minute delay before you are fully returned to whatever world you were inhabiting.
Which is why I pity any writer in an office environment who is constantly interrupted and asked: “but can you quickly?”.
It’s also why I decided that a ‘She’ed’ (She Shed) was the future of my sanity and my family’s safety as I hit my 13th year of working from home.
It was also an investment into my business. Ultimately, taking the step to spend a fairly solid chunk of money on a glorified Wendy House in the garden is a commitment to something that’s intangible but important – yourself.
It’s money that could be spent on gutters, walls, school fees, and other essential costs. But I believe the opposite is true.
I believe that by creating a space that’s just for me, for my creative thoughts, for my writing and, most importantly, my clients, I’m putting my business front and centre.
I’m prioritising quality because I’m giving myself the environment I need to focus on my work.
It’s a room of my own, dedicated exclusively to writing, and designed to make that as easy as possible.
There’s the fact that I mooch into work wearing my pyjamas 99% of the time. That’s okay in this mini-outdoor office. No judgement here.
Guests are welcome to show up in their own favourite nighttime accessories, and to bring a book. There’s a sofa with a view for them to my left.
Two of the walls are painted with whiteboard paint. My client to-do lists run down one side, and my plot twists and planning for that novel I am writing gallop down the other.
Here my deadlines loom large and keep me on the straight and narrow. Guests are welcome to leave art behind when they leave.
The hum of my fabulous PC, the soft lighting of the fairy lights on the porch, the whisper of the wind through the windows in the mini forest formed by the garden trees, and the furry fluffiness of my carpet, are accessories to creativity.
But it’s not all shiny joy and perfection. This space where I sit and write does come with some guilt.
Yes, I worry that I was frivolous. Writers have superstitions, and this one had a moment of believing that a recent run of bad luck was the universe punishing me for such an extravagance.
Does it make me wonder if I made a mistake? No.
Every morning I unlock my shed, put my cushions where I want them, swivel my chair into the position I like, put on music, and write and write – and write. I still don’t quite believe it’s mine.
I’m waiting for someone to come and tell me it was all a mistake and I have to leave now. I have moments of pure joy when I realise nobody is coming.
It’s mine. I can paint it pink and call it a peach. I can stick giant wooden legs outside and claim I killed the Wicked Witch of the West.
I can do whatever I like, and best of all, I can do it in an utterly creative space.
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