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And now for a little backstory.
In 2018, I sent the universe a plea: I wanted a work space outside of my home from which to create. One sunny afternoon, I pulled into the parking pad beside the old dilapidated shed that was at the back edge of our property. I had parked beside it for a dozen years, but on this particular day, I looked at it with fresh eyes. Was there potential there? Might it be transformed into a studio?
I asked my friend Bruce's opinion. We had to cut the padlock because I didn't have the key. The shed had been storage for the various tenants who had lived in the house over the years. Inside was a host of cast off things: a roll of pink fibreglass insulation, an old lawnmower, a pair of women's ice skates, old paint cans, rusted tools, an empty gas can, and the skeletal forms of birds that had gotten in but somehow hadn't been able to find their way out. Needless to say, I was dubious that the space could be transformed, but I trusted Bruce when he said he could transform it.
The bigger stumbling block was wondering if I trusted myself. Did I need a writing studio? I had written The Unfinished Child in cafés and libraries. Surely the renovation money would be better spent on my children. Was it worth investing in a small space at the edge of an alley?
Despite my fears, I took the leap. I felt like the universe had answered my plea; how else to explain my fresh vision? I told Bruce the studio needed two things: light and warmth. I asked for a set of garden doors to face the garden that I had covered over with a black tarp the previous summer because I didn't want to tend it and the weeds were prolific.
To give me light, Bruce and his son Griffin also installed a window facing west; to give me warmth, they added a lot of insulation and an electric base heater to make the studio usable year round. |
