Writer's Room 10

We always knew there was something going on with men and sheds. We have that little book to thank, but even before then we suspected. Men like their sheds, possibly because it is their own space, maybe the little space they've carved out for themselves. It is a place to listen to the radio, sort seeds, enter without wiping their feet. Having an office or study (what you call it depends on how you feel about what you do there I suppose, mine is called the playroom) is a luxury we may not have room for in our homes increasingly bursting at the seams. Bedrooms have to come first for the kids, play rooms even. More people than ever are working from home, so often the spaces we once had for creativity become places of other work. I think we're going to see a rise in the phenomenon of the writing shed because writers still want to carve out their own sacred little space. The shed is perfect for this, there we can let go of all Kim and Aggie tidiness indoctrination, we can blow a raspberry at the Changing Room team. Laurence Llewelyn Bowen just wouldn't be comfortable here. Sheds are, well sheds. We can do what we want there. We don't have to paint the walls or wonder if our colour scheme is so last year. No one will judge shed. Few visitors will see it. No pretension. No anything, just shed. It's a gift to writers, no planning permission required. If we have a little garden and a few hundred quid we have our own little space. It needs very little in it. The thing about shed is just from taking that small walk outside down the garden we are making a commitment to an hour or so of creative me time. Chances are no one can hear a peep from us.

I like how this writing shed area is so simple. The honesty of wood, a little photo tacked to the wall, a few books, the light from the window and the laptop- what more do we need? Nothing to dust. Wood warms in the sun, cools down over time.

What the writer said is this: A million years ago I sat smoking B&H in a cellar in Kirkstall painting five foot canvasses and that was the last studio space I ever had, the last great mix of boredom, dream, graft and accident. I’ve yearned for some place of my own ever since, and a year or so back we put this place in the garden. It’s a haven, but I’m still learning to use it. Every writer needs a corner. I used to write anywhere I could lie down, and out of shot is a sofa where I can lie and listen to some block rocking beats as I do my prep, reading whatever piles up on the floor. The calling cards of the imagination.

Doesn't sound like it gets much better than this. Shed seems a zen like place. Interesting that the writers says 'I'm still learning how to use it.' This will come I think, it may well be learning the art of shed is to learn to relax and enter the mental temporary state of being able to leave the house, work, not done tasks, whatever at the bottom of the garden for a bit and just be in the shed.