Lately I’ve been having trouble writing. I’ve become obsessed with the idea of space, and how that is affecting my productivity. I’ve convinced myself that in order to trick the words out, I need a desk. A little haven I can call my own, where I can go when I want to work. If I had a desk, I’d be more productive than working from my bed or the kitchen table. If I had a desk it would be near a window. Somewhere light and airy. Somewhere I could listen to the rain against the glass. Or feel the warmth of the sunshine. And the slightly salted smell of the breeze as it whips across the river. It would probably a Scandi style minimal desk, kept clean and bare instead of being cluttered with the usual rubbish that the rest of my room is. It would have nice stationery on it. And space for fresh flowers and a Jasmine Dowling calendar.
Unfortunately, the space in my flat doesn’t allow for the luxury of a desk. And if I tried to fit one in my room, I’d just end up feeling cramped. But since I’ve got it into my head that it’s my space that’s stopping the words, I decided I needed to do something about it. Instead of writing, I tied my room. I thought that with a clear space and a clear mind, the writing would come. But somewhere between straightening things up, scattering pillows, piling up books and arranging flowers, the words got stuck. I had built my little nest, but then I had nothing to say. There’s nothing more frustrating than when your words won’t come out. But I know the reason why, desks and quiet spaces aside. It’s not the space that I’m struggling with. It’s that I do have something to say, something that I do want to write about. But I’m struggling with how I want to write about it. I’ve not quite found the right words yet. So bear with me, because I think until I’ve managed to find a way to write about the thing that’s really on my mind, content might be a bit of struggle.