I’ve almost always worked from home. At times I’ve worked in spare bedrooms or from a sofa in the living room. I’ve set up a desk in a conservatory (hiding under an umbrella when the sun was too bright to see my computer screen). I’ve written blog posts whilst eating breakfast, I’ve edited book chapters on the loo.
But over the last couple of years I’ve begun yearning for a specific workspace of my own. A place where I could think “this is where I work. Today I am going to grind out some creativity and get 2000 words written no matter how little I feel like it.” [There's a big difference between grinding out creativity and the sparking of creativity which comes on long runs, visiting new places, chatting to interesting people.] I wanted somewhere to play Thunder Road on repeat very loudly. I needed to leave home, to go somewhere to work (‘I’m heading out of here to win!’) and then to come home again when I’d finished and to properly relax, like normal people do.
I couldn’t really justify renting an office when all I need is a computer. And, besides, I didn’t choose my direction in life in order to have an office. No. What I really wanted was a shed. Middle-aged male stereotype, perhaps, but I challenge anyone to visit the Cabin Porn website (it’s safe for work! Except that it might make you hand in your resignation…) and not feel a deep longing for a place of their own.
So when my royalty cheque arrived for my Microadventures book (due out this June) I decided to treat myself to a shed of my own.