Room design can have a powerful effect on concentration and mood, according to a feature in the April issue of Scientific American Mind. The included research finds that ceiling height, views of greenery, and lighting all have measurable effects on thinking.

Although gazing out a window suggests distraction, it turns out that views of natural settings, such as a garden, field or forest, actually improve focus. A study published in 2000 by environmental psychologist Nancy Wells, now at Cornell University, and her colleagues followed seven- to 12-year-old children before and after a family move. Wells and her team evaluated the panoramas from windows in each old and new home. They found that kids who experienced the greatest increase in greenness as a result of the move also made the most gains on a standard test of attention.

Presented in support of my obsession with the places where writers work.

When Johnathon said, and I quote, “Ashley, I take back everything I’ve ever said about your space being messy”, the sentiment didn’t quite seem heartfelt, but–moreover–he was not joking around. My workspace is always an enormous pile of disarray. Proof:

Since the picture cannot possibly do justice to the filth in which I write, I have attempted to draw this eyesore into some semblance of order with arrows and labels. Useful? I hope so. 

To begin: The “desk” is actually two end tables pushed together, which requires the low chair. I like to be hunched over my poems as I’m working. The reasoning behind this is unclear. 

The empty packs of cigarettes are a sure sign that things are going well. Although I’ve recently begun rolling my own cigarettes in an attempt to hurry my death by nicotine, the overflowing ashtray continues to be a signal of significant progress.  I like to think it means that I’ve been too busy writing to empty the ashtray or clean up.

On the other hand, I might just be lazy. It is impossible to tell. Assuming it is the latter, I’ll justify myself with Virginia Woolf: “It is in our idleness…that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.” That’s it.

The excuse regarding the empty Coke can, many of which typically litter the desk I treat with such derision, falls into a similar line of thought. I am pleased to say, however, that my Coke addiction is fading fast: I’m on to sweet tea now. 

Perhaps surprisingly, I can’t write anything even remotely worthwhile when I’m drunk, which isn’t to say I can do so sober, but I think I edge a little closer without the whiskey. As my alcoholism becomes more fully developed, I’m hoping the liquor will become a regular part of my writing process, since writing drunk seems like a positive thing in theory. 

Books are stacked helter-skelter and set askew around the general vicinity. When I’m stuck, it occasionally helps to pick up someone else, to do a quick imitation. Also: this sometimes leads to a poem worth following up on, or reveals a structure that might be useful to my current pet project. Hardy is of great use when it comes to this, which is why he’s right next to the laptop. 

Also: Because I’m stuck more often than not, I’ll have up multiple versions of the same poem while I’m working. For me, a line from a previous failure can generate new ideas in the current take–even if it’s just a rhyme or a juxtaposition of words. 

I’ll leave the rest to you to justify, as I seem to be at a loss. While I would like my workspace to be clean and shiny, chaos is absolutely  necessary to my writing, in which I typically seek order–especially given my control issues. It seems I am a bundle of contradictions, right down to the lipstick prints on my rolled cigarettes. 

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Previous entries in this series:

Where the Magic Happens: Karen Rigby

Where the Magic Happens: Deborah Ager

Where the Magic Happens: Sandra Beasley

Karen Rigby’s poem “The Lover” appeared on Linebreak on July 21, a short time after it was selected for the Best New Poets 2008 Anthology. Here’s Karen on her writing space.

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When the editor for Linebreak, Johnathon, asked me if I’d be interested in showing my workspace, I thought of the Guardian’s series on writer’s rooms.

It’s easy to imagine writers sitting at roll-top secretary desks, writers with curios lining their shelves, the honest disorder of a happy household, the sheaf of papers, the glowing screen. Viewing the rooms of much more established and well-known writers, one might believe that being a writer almost requires a space resembling a private library, artist studio, or cottage. Grand or eccentric retreats for grand, original minds.

The public’s curiosity may stem from the desire to find out what belongings reveal about their owners. I wondered if my own room might seem very austere by comparison, or what characteristics a viewer might try to superimpose on a writer based on an image.

The easy explanation for the clean look: My husband and I have been living in our current (first) house for only half a year, have enough storage space, and are still making the fundamental decisions regarding furniture. The “bones” of the space must come first. The dressing up of these interiors will come much later.

Still, I think even the choices already made say something. We are in transition. The furniture, like many of my stanzas, has been repurposed, reassembled (from other drafts or in this case, other rooms–the chair was borrowed from the kitchen table. The desk was once a sofa / console table and is lightweight enough to move around the house–I migrate according to whim or seasonal changes in the natural lighting).

I don’t require a large footprint. I always write on a laptop. All I need is a wireless connection and the printer, which is in another room.

One of the benefits of moving from an apartment to a home is that suddenly all of one’s items become dispersed or dwarfed by the whiteness of the walls–if “clutter” is an accumulation of objects within the confines of a particular space, the easiest way to remove it is to simply spread out so that everything finds a place. The books, then, remain outside in the foyer.

Inside the cabinet: books by Edward Hirsch, Sandra McPherson, Larry Levis, Sandra Lim and others. Also Audrey Hepburn movies, and (of course) Marguerite Duras’s The Lover. The dust jackets for hardcover books are wrapped in plastic sleeves like those in a library. Haibane Renmei, an anime series. A plush Scottish terrier in the back, behind the books. An Edith Piaf CD, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Alice Fulton’s short stories, more books.

Now that I look at these pictures they do make sense with how I tend to write: I usually write one poem at a time until I’ve finished, rather than producing many drafts of many poems at once. When I write, I often begin with the title and then proceed to work from the beginning to the end, line by line until I am satisfied with each line. Such a methodical approach seems fitting for someone who is most at peace when the surfaces remain clear.

But lest a reader or viewer imagine perfectionism, there’s always more to the story than meets the eye: there’s a terrific phrase in JD Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, wherein the main character, Holden Caulfield, describes someone else as a “secret slob”.

You wouldn’t know from the photo that these nightstands are actually our dressers (multi-purposing again) but that on my side, everything in the drawers is jumbled. This has nothing to do with writing at all but may one day become the one quirk I maintain–akin to Roald Dahl’s ball of chocolate wrappers in the Guardian article–I may be particular about the more visible surroundings, but drawers are another matter.

From all this one may surmise that I am a practical person, not fond of excess. I favor simple lines, small patterns, and a somewhat wintery look with rare lapses in taste or sudden bursts of enthusiasm (yellow! of all color choices!) and that I pick and choose my battles.

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Previous entries in this series:

Where the Magic Happens: Deborah Ager

Where the Magic Happens: Sandra Beasley

Our fascination with the spaces where poets create continues with this entry from Deborah Ager, publisher of 32 Poems and a blogger in her own right. Deborah’s first book, Midnight Voices, will be published in March 2009 by WordTech/Cherry Grove Collection. Her work has appeared in Best New Poets 2006, Best of the Tigertail Anthologies, The Bloomsbury Review, The Georgia Review, New Letters, and Quarterly West. She likes peach cobbler, Joan Didion and post-WWII modernist furniture.

Here’s Deborah:

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This desk isn’t just my desk. It’s a desk that belonged a doctor in Annapolis, MD for 50 years. I often wonder how he kept it in such near perfect condition for so long. It’s a desk that’s also known as the M 320W kneehole desk with steam bent drawers. This lingo is used by Heyword-Wakefield collectors — ahem! — geeks to describe this piece of furniture. One of my friends said I am a ‘furniture person’ and that is true. Furniture is art, and I buy it with that in mind. I spent three years looking for the “right” desk. The desk had to be old. The desk had to modern. The desk had to last me until I die, and so far it has.

My second desk belonged to my great-great grandfather. I’ve not yet drafted a poem at it, but I’m thrilled to have it and love its unusual look. I keep writing notebooks in it for now.

With the desk issue out of the way, the other details fell into place. We moved, got more space, had a child, gave up previous writing space, and I relocated into a roomy space upstairs. We painted the walls yellow so that the light from outside creates even more light. I have two windows that let light in but do not let me get distracted by allowing me to see outside. Clever, clever windows!

Above my desk are two black-and-white prints I enjoy. I purposely have no idea where the shots are taken. One looks like a deserted town out west. The other could be southern Spain or Italy or Morocco.

A notable missing element is my laptop, which floats around the house with me as I work and create. Sometimes I sit in a comfy chair, sometimes I sit in bed, and sometimes I sit outside. The other notable missing element is my printer. I decided to set up a printing station elsewhere in the house. Since I rarely use the printer, I did not want it to clutter up my desk. Now I have books in the place where the printer used to sit.

The books rotate. Right now, I have two Joan Didion books. Her writing is gorgeous. If I move to a desert island — which looks better and better these days — I’ll take *The Year of Magical Thinking* with me. I always have a copy of Elizabeth Bishop’s Complete Poems nearby. That book never leaves the rotation. I recently added a bird book after an accidental birding walk taken with a friend. The birding walk was accidental, because I don’t tend to notice a bird unless it happens to unleash its lunch on my head — which has happened unfortunately — but my friend noticed every single bird and could identify them by sound. Needless to say, I was impressed and thought it high time to learn more of the names of these little and important creatures.

To the left, you can see my filing system. 32 Poems mail goes into this right away. I’ve got four compartments with contracts, subscriptions, and the other odds and ends of running a magazine. The addition of this filing system has saved me countless hours.

For me, creating a space to write values the process — especially for a process that does not generate much in the way of revenue — for the sake of process. Having a space gives me permission, peace and a prosperous creative mindset.

As far as obsessions go, collecting photographs of writers’ workspaces is fairly benign. Regardless, it’s the subject of one of our many recurring features here at Unstressed. If you’re a publishing poet who wouldn’t mind sharing a photo (and an optional description) of your workspace, please drop us a line.

First up is Sandra Beasley, whose poems appeared on Linebreak on June 10 and Aug. 19.

Here’s Sandra:

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I don’t know if it’s truly where magic happens, but that’s how the Linebreak editors phrased it when they asked for a snapshot of my writing space. What does happen at my desk: drafting, cussing, sneezing, gesticulating, wikipedia-ing as an aid to drafting, wikipedia-ing as a distraction from drafting, reading lines aloud, tapping out ten syllable-lines out with my left hand, and drinking of scotch.

A rundown of some visible elements:

• A new-ish macbook (which replaced my beloved ibook). This laptop will sometimes move up with me to the balcony, or to a rocking chair in our bedroom.
• A hulk of a printer that bears a sticker proclaiming SCREW GUILT. I have gone through five printers since high school, and this sticker has been transferred to each and every one of them. I don’t particularly know why, but now it’s tradition.
• Two framed prints that are actually each half of the same image, a menagerie of animals depicted in styles ranging from the cartoonish to Audubon-exact. I clipped these from an issue of CABINET magazine, and find them a useful place to rest my eyes when I’m feeling stuck. Every time I look, there is an animal I hadn’t noticed before. This may have a role in the high frequency of giraffes, horses, turtles, capybaras, and platypi that appear in my recent poems.
• An exceptionally comfy chair that I bought at a second-hand store here in DC and then carried, balanced on top of my head, the eight blocks back to my old apartment building.

I really do keep my desk this clean. Don’t get me wrong, there are stacks of to-do paperwork elsewhere, but having a blank surface is key to giving myself permission to write. If I were trying to draft a sestina while also eyeing my incomplete 2008 tax return, the sestina would never happen. If the walls seem a little bare, I am trying to pace myself. We’ve only lived here since March, so I’m waiting until I have just the right things to hang up.

When we moved in, I worried that the lack of a window would keep this from working as my studio. But I get plenty of natural light (there’s a skylight above that staircase in the upper left of the photo). It never feels claustrophobic, and it is also the first space I see when I walk in the door–so naturally, the first place I sit. Much more organic than creeping off to an attic.

The books to the left of my desk are only a fraction of my poetry collection. I have far too many books, and since I can’t bear to get rid of anything signed to me, it is safe to say I will always have far too many books. They’re grouped according to the color of their spines. It is an indulgence, but as easily as I can remember the author’s last name, I’m able to picture how the book looks in my hands. You’d be surprised how quickly I find what I need. And when I can’t locate a title right away, the search causes me to stumble across three books I’d kind of forgotten about, but want to re-read. Who says any system having to do with poetry has to be efficient?

What I love best about this space is that it is, truly, a room of my own. It doesn’t double as a sewing room, or a guest bedroom; the boy has his own desk, on another floor entirely. It is a room for writing, and that is a rare and lucky thing.