I was walking through the bookstore yesterday, something which I so love to do.  It’s interesting how literature changes people.  How it affects one’s mind and soul.  And I don’t mean in the act of reading either… but rather just being surrounded by books.  To walk through the aisles, fingers softly touching spines as if the mere touch of something interesting will feel differently… as though the book will resonate just so and your fingertips will feel that pulse of life.

I used to have an office in our living room many years ago.  Now this was when Anne and I had very little money.  We lived in a modest two bedroom home.  When Tristan was born, I had to give up my office so that he may have his own room (as Anne and I had agreed he would not sleep in our room as some newborns do).  This however, left me office’less, so to speak.

We decided on a corner of the living room which I could use as an office space.  My old desk was dragged out of Tristan’s bedroom, and setup in the corner.  I arranged my tools of the trade (an old typewriter and some pads and pencils) so that I was facing the wall.  I thought this would allow for the least distractions and Anne and Tristan could still be in the same room as me.

I realized quite quickly that though my dedication to writing was quite strong, my ability to concentrate in this setting was not.  Part of the allure of the family of course, was this beautiful new child whom I wanted to spend all of my time with.  Still, I was determined to write and so devised a means of creating an atmosphere that would promote it.

Even then, when money was tight, we never were frugal when it came to books.  Our walls were lined with them, and sofa tables were not needed as we simply stacked hard covers upon which to rest our reading glasses, box of tissue, though never drinks.  Books lay (neatly) strewn in piles around the house (kitchen table, toilet bowl, arms and back of the sofa, television, which ironically was rarely turned on, and the list goes on).

Back to my office dilemma.  With a light bulb brightly blazing over my head, I walked to the local hardware store and made a deal with Ned (the owner, an old friend of my father’s) to purchase three solid bookcases.  They really weren’t that much to look at, but they had a solid back (which I deemed important) and they would not break our bank.  Ned agreed to equal payments over the next six months.  How funny that it took us that long to pay for three bookcases.  The memories of this simpler time makes me smile for a minute.

Ned helped me with the bookcases as he had a pickup truck that he used for deliveries.  He was getting on in years though, as I am now, so I tried to do most of the work.  We carried them into the living room, and I placed two side by side(facing inward toward the desk) so that they stood behind me when I sat in the chair.  The third was setup on my left, a foot from the edge of the desk (so that I may still be able to retrieve a book from the bottom shelves if I needed to).  This left a small entry and enough space for my chair to recline slightly if I needed to stretch. 

I would sit for hours, surrounded by my walls of books which were surprisingly good at muffling the sounds from the living room.  What little sound came through however did not bother me in the least, and I found I was more willing to write in this atmosphere.  There’s something about being surrounded by books on all sides… about being that close to the spines and feeling the presence of so many who had done just as I was doing.

My office made of paper… I miss it sometimes, and feel that I was more productive during those years than ever after.  Perhaps I should visit Ned’s son someday.

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