I had a fantastic office -- in an old building with high ceilings, wood paneling, and a solid door for privacy. I intentionally kept my desk facing toward the window, so it wouldn't be a barrier between me and any visitors. But I hear what you're saying about the status and power thing, because a lot of students seemed to be intimidated by the wall full of books. Even so, it was a home of sorts, and I got some excellent writing done there for the reasons Cynthia is suggesting (I think): it was my own. Part of me died when I walked out of there on my last day.
My writing desk is now in my bedroom. It has a nice view of a field on our acreage, with a long sightline to the north and west, where I can see a mountain range far in the distance. Neuroscientists say that long sightlines and high ceilings -- spaciousness -- is conducive to creativity. But I think there is something about the bed behind me and the other reminders that it's a hybrid space that has limited my creative output. I can write journalism there and the kind of nonfiction that I produce most weeks on Substack. But it may be one reason why the memoir I thought I'd have finished by now is still barely begun, and why the novel idea that I mull over before falling asleep is, as yet, an unarticulated thought. This is a half-baked idea, and I'm sure there are all kinds of exceptions to it, but I think that because meaningful creativity requires risk, it also requires a foundation of safety. I wonder if one therefore needs a space where there is no chance of intrusion, a space fully within one's control, to really yield to creativity. An interesting hypothesis. If true, then it means that I may need to stop working from home.
Liz, I hope you find such a place for your new writing life.
I’m grateful to know someone else has a similarly sappy feeling about their office. Right now, I write at a makeshift desk in our rental house, my elbows almost in a closet. It works, but I’m looking forward to a desk with a view, like the one you describe, but also with a door!
I had a lot of thoughts about this. I was an English professor. I squeaked through tenure and now recognize my status in the Dept. Was diminished afterward. When the Dept. Moved to another building, the chair made office assignments himself. It was an old building: some offices were grand, others quite small. I got a tiny place and tried not to mind it but knew the symbolism of the thing. I’m retired now and trying to invent myself writing fiction. Although it was hard, I rented an office in a historic building downtown. It’s changed my relationship to my writing. I wish I had done this years ago. No academic office ever made me feel this way.
I hadn’t thought about the way the size and location of an office is a status symbol, but it’s absolutely true. I can think of so many examples in my own department. I also have surely evaluated others’ statuses based on the size and decor of their office…
In the Alice Munro story linked above, the narrator also rents an office and loves it (though then has to leave it for reasons).
Liz, this is on the bone, not merely close to it. Thank you for a bell of mindfulness mixed with your open, brave heart (she said as she committed to get the hell out of her office this week).
Sigh x 1000 sighs. "The Office." When Covid started, I was granted access to one of the larger offices in my department's area. It was twice as big as my old office and had been occupied for 30+ years previously. Almost none of the furnishings were going to work for me, so I requested different things, was given a walk-through in the college's storage area. I tagged items (desk top, desk bases, filing cabinet) and managed to get someone to deep clean the carpet, fix the broken ceiling, replace a shattered window. When I arrived to move in my belongings, I discovered that none of my tagged items had made it; Facilities had chosen other items for me. Drawers were bashed in, dented, with chipped paint and stains in the drawer bottom (so many stains). The filing cabinet's handles were falling off. I remember sinking to the floor, suddenly weeping, weeping more because I was so confused about why I was weeping, calling my mom. A grown-ass woman calling her mother...to weep about dents and stains and chipped paint. I felt...worthless. I felt like the terrible condition of the furnishings (ca. 1992) was a reflection of my devaluation, a clawback of whatever accomplishment I had felt for 'finally making it to the big office,' having room for a comfortable chair.
The lesson I have learned, as I now prepare to move again, to a much smaller office with a dirty, stained office carpet, bonus plaster chunks and 1992 furniture, is just a place to sit. I will not 'make it homey.' It will not be made 'cozy.' No one will enter it and say, 'Oh! Your office is so nice!' It's temporary real estate where I have to type for a few hours a day in between trying to teach. It is symbolic of how little regard my employer has for my mind, my work, my expertise, my comfort. It is old, uncared for, and falling apart. Helps me think about boundaries: I go there briefly, exchange my labor for money, and then return home, which is where my soul and heart are.
I am sorry this happened/is happening to you. Our academic spaces do a good job of conveying the respect (or not) that we command, don’t they? Good for you for keeping your soul to yourself.
I had a fantastic office -- in an old building with high ceilings, wood paneling, and a solid door for privacy. I intentionally kept my desk facing toward the window, so it wouldn't be a barrier between me and any visitors. But I hear what you're saying about the status and power thing, because a lot of students seemed to be intimidated by the wall full of books. Even so, it was a home of sorts, and I got some excellent writing done there for the reasons Cynthia is suggesting (I think): it was my own. Part of me died when I walked out of there on my last day.
My writing desk is now in my bedroom. It has a nice view of a field on our acreage, with a long sightline to the north and west, where I can see a mountain range far in the distance. Neuroscientists say that long sightlines and high ceilings -- spaciousness -- is conducive to creativity. But I think there is something about the bed behind me and the other reminders that it's a hybrid space that has limited my creative output. I can write journalism there and the kind of nonfiction that I produce most weeks on Substack. But it may be one reason why the memoir I thought I'd have finished by now is still barely begun, and why the novel idea that I mull over before falling asleep is, as yet, an unarticulated thought. This is a half-baked idea, and I'm sure there are all kinds of exceptions to it, but I think that because meaningful creativity requires risk, it also requires a foundation of safety. I wonder if one therefore needs a space where there is no chance of intrusion, a space fully within one's control, to really yield to creativity. An interesting hypothesis. If true, then it means that I may need to stop working from home.
Liz, I hope you find such a place for your new writing life.
I’m grateful to know someone else has a similarly sappy feeling about their office. Right now, I write at a makeshift desk in our rental house, my elbows almost in a closet. It works, but I’m looking forward to a desk with a view, like the one you describe, but also with a door!
I had a lot of thoughts about this. I was an English professor. I squeaked through tenure and now recognize my status in the Dept. Was diminished afterward. When the Dept. Moved to another building, the chair made office assignments himself. It was an old building: some offices were grand, others quite small. I got a tiny place and tried not to mind it but knew the symbolism of the thing. I’m retired now and trying to invent myself writing fiction. Although it was hard, I rented an office in a historic building downtown. It’s changed my relationship to my writing. I wish I had done this years ago. No academic office ever made me feel this way.
I hadn’t thought about the way the size and location of an office is a status symbol, but it’s absolutely true. I can think of so many examples in my own department. I also have surely evaluated others’ statuses based on the size and decor of their office…
In the Alice Munro story linked above, the narrator also rents an office and loves it (though then has to leave it for reasons).
Liz, this is on the bone, not merely close to it. Thank you for a bell of mindfulness mixed with your open, brave heart (she said as she committed to get the hell out of her office this week).
Sigh x 1000 sighs. "The Office." When Covid started, I was granted access to one of the larger offices in my department's area. It was twice as big as my old office and had been occupied for 30+ years previously. Almost none of the furnishings were going to work for me, so I requested different things, was given a walk-through in the college's storage area. I tagged items (desk top, desk bases, filing cabinet) and managed to get someone to deep clean the carpet, fix the broken ceiling, replace a shattered window. When I arrived to move in my belongings, I discovered that none of my tagged items had made it; Facilities had chosen other items for me. Drawers were bashed in, dented, with chipped paint and stains in the drawer bottom (so many stains). The filing cabinet's handles were falling off. I remember sinking to the floor, suddenly weeping, weeping more because I was so confused about why I was weeping, calling my mom. A grown-ass woman calling her mother...to weep about dents and stains and chipped paint. I felt...worthless. I felt like the terrible condition of the furnishings (ca. 1992) was a reflection of my devaluation, a clawback of whatever accomplishment I had felt for 'finally making it to the big office,' having room for a comfortable chair.
The lesson I have learned, as I now prepare to move again, to a much smaller office with a dirty, stained office carpet, bonus plaster chunks and 1992 furniture, is just a place to sit. I will not 'make it homey.' It will not be made 'cozy.' No one will enter it and say, 'Oh! Your office is so nice!' It's temporary real estate where I have to type for a few hours a day in between trying to teach. It is symbolic of how little regard my employer has for my mind, my work, my expertise, my comfort. It is old, uncared for, and falling apart. Helps me think about boundaries: I go there briefly, exchange my labor for money, and then return home, which is where my soul and heart are.
I am sorry this happened/is happening to you. Our academic spaces do a good job of conveying the respect (or not) that we command, don’t they? Good for you for keeping your soul to yourself.