A Room of One\’s Own


Read about 229 Spring Street

Since Strikethru threw down the gauntlet and asked us to dream up our own writing shacks,I thought I\’d play along. This was easy, because I picked out this Dream Shack a few weeks ago while visiting Eureka Springs, AR and very nearly not returning.

So it\’s not a shack, actually, but it is for sale and it called to me distinctly every time I rode down the mountain to go into  or out of town. This little house tugged at me, I tell you.

I know the conversation about writing shacks began with the whole back-to-basics, typewriter-on-a-table philosophy, and I wholly agree – we need to disconnect and find a room of our own. I get it. I\’m not having some kind of Pinterest-induced Southern Living magazine fantasy.

But LOOK at it. 

Bear with me here. Let\’s say you\’re out in your backyard writing shack, in the gawdalmighty zone and typing like a best-selling fiend on the finest typewriter Remington ever made. You\’re an articulate machine gun, and you\’re thirsty for a tall glass of iced tea which should be within arm\’s reach, but is now empty. Or, you have to powder your nose. It happens.

Just then, your wife/husband/child/grandkid shouts out across the lawn and into your zone. \”Do you need anything from the store?\” they say. Or \”Hey, where are my…?\”

And it\’s gone.

The answer is to leave town, really. Move to, say, Eureka Springs and buy a sweet little house so you can live on two levels that step out upon two different streets. Better yet, win the lottery, buy the Eureka house, and tell absolutely no one what you have done. That way they can\’t follow you.

(Do click on the link and read about the house. There are more pictures, but I knew I\’d lose complete typewriter shack cred if I put them up here.)


The Iron Whim: Recuperative Reading

Fresh Ribbon

A very good friend gifted me this afternoon with a little something to read while I recover from knee surgery this weekend. Because it’s likely I’ll be ridiculous from pain meds, I’ve already peeked a bit inside The Iron Whim: A Fragmented History of Typewriters by Darren Wershler-Henry.

I promised myself I’d only read the first chapter or so and save the rest for later, but so much for that. How could I help it? The intro is a haunted machine and hashish-motivated writing jag. Chapter 1 is the infamous Royal Road Test. I finally put the thing down after Chapter 2’s nostalgia as religion – pages dedicated to those crazy folks who haunt Ebay (can you imagine?) to snag a bit of mechanical history.

I’m stopping right here. I swear. Not another page until after Friday’s surgery.

Thanks, Steph!