by Beth Ann Price

Last week in our webinar, we imagined our ideal writing spaces. We clustered around words like private, ethereal, prolific, and dandelion. We wrote scenes that placed us inside rooms where writing flowed easily.

Afterward, I realized something surprising.

My current writing space, which is far from the one I dreamed about last week, doesn’t inspire me. But the objects inside do. Yes, I have the typical things. A desk. A somewhat comfortable chair. Softer lighting because I don’t like bright lights, though I keep a task lamp nearby. A loveseat I can move to when I don’t want to sit upright and “be productive.” My dictionary, thesaurus, grammar guide, and the Word of the Day book sit within reach.

But those aren’t what “make things happen.”

What makes the words flow is what I have a deep curiosity about or a connection to.

On the wall hangs a new quilt my mother made. The pattern is a Quilts of Valor creation. Intricate, deliberate, stitched with care, created to honor veterans. The fabric is new, but the stories and the sacrifices it represents are old.

Nearby is a vintage quilt, sewn from large squares from old fertilizer bags. Made in a time when there wasn’t money for new fabric and buying from a department store was a luxury. Someone cut, stitched, and pieced together what they had out of pure necessity.



I often wonder who slept beneath it. Who was kept warm? What stories were told under its weight on a cold night?

On a shelf across the room is a teacup from my grandmother’s wedding china set. I imagine family gatherings long before I was born: the voices, laughter, tension, and celebration. Beside it sit modern mugs with sassy, even controversial sayings. They reflect my mood some mornings, especially the one that says: “And yet despite the look on my face, you are still talking.”

In the far corner stands my newly acquired spinning wheel. I don’t know its history. But I’m certain there is one, and there’s a story there to be written.

I find myself touching these objects often and wondering.

Who held this before me?
What did it witness?
What conversations happened nearby?
What hopes were spoken into the room?

When I do this, I relax.

And I realize something important.

I don’t write best when I feel organized. I write best when I feel connected.

Connected to the past.
Connected to story.
Connected to continuity.

Marilyn once wrote about passing two discarded chairs on the street and imagining the history they may have shared, whether they came from the same apartment or simply met at the curb. She offered an exercise:

Take note of what your neighbors are throwing out, and select one item. Write a brief history of where it comes from and what it has seen. Has it passed from person to person like in The Red Violin, or remained in one place the whole time? What does the object “witness”?

That exercise isn’t about furniture. It’s about opening your mind to creative possibilities.

It’s about perspective.

Closing our eyes, we can travel to another time, another space, and immerse ourselves in a story, leaving schedules and to-do lists behind. An escape. Perhaps we need a reminder that our ideal writing spaces are not just physical, but are defined by what reminds us that we are part of something larger than the word count.

My quilts, my teacup, my spinning wheel remind me that stories exist before I sit down to write them.

And when I remember that, the words come more easily.