Heather Masterson

Update: The proofs were found in Illinois, forty-three hours after they disappeared in New Jersey. I imagine they have massive hangovers and a bad attitude. They were found twenty hours ago, though, and I haven’t heard a word since, so I’m a little afraid that they’ve escaped again.

ICYMI: J.K. Rowling mentions leaving her writing room, someone calls her pretentious for having a writing room (or maybe just for saying it), Twitter explodes with tales of writer’s rooms, scathing comments, hilarious comparisons, and… you know, Twitter stuff.

Confession: I have a writing room.

It’s also my video gaming room, my library, my wardrobe, my exercise room, and my TV room. I’d post a picture, but it’s ridiculously messy right now. I have entirely too much stuff crammed into this one room, and it’s only getting worse: the other day, it occurred to me that I had a room divider gathering dust in the basement that would be perfect as a streaming backdrop, so now I have that competing for floor space with a couple of chairs, two dressers, a desk, several sets of shelves…

Unfortunately, what it doesn’t have is a door that can be closed. The room wasn’t wired for anything but electricity, so I ran cables along the ceiling and through the doorway, thus rendering it un-shut-able. I’ll fix it someday. Maybe.

When I’m at home, I spend most of my time in that room. I tend to refer to it as my office, since it’s wearing so many hats, but the truth of the matter is… it doesn’t really belong to me. I can call it whatever I want, but I’m just a squatter. The true Rulers of the Room graciously allow me to stay, so long as I remain a reliable servant.

My desk is positioned so that my back is to the window, as is proper. I am allowed to use the room, but I am not allowed to share their view.