In these days of universal scribbling, when almost every one writes for
fame or money, many people who are not reaping large pecuniary profits
from their work do not feel justified in making any outlay to gratify
the necessities of their labors in literature.
Every one engaged in literary work, even if but to a limited extent,
feels greatly the need of a quiet nook to write in. Each portion of
the home seems to have its clearly defined use, that will prevent
their achieving the desired result. A few weeks ago, in the course of
my travels, I came across an excellent idea carried into practical
operation, that had accomplished the much-desired result of a quiet
spot for literary work, without the disarrangement of a single portion
of the household economy. In calling at the house of a member of the
Society of Friends, I was ushered first into the main library on the
first floor. Not finding in it the article sought, the owner invited
me to walk upstairs to an upper library. I continued my ascent until
we reached the attic. This had been utilized in such a way that it
formed a comfortable and acceptable study. I made a mental note of my
surroundings. The room was a large sloping attic chamber. It contained
two windows, one opening on a roof; another faced the door: a skylight
had been cut directly overhead, in the middle of the room. Around the
ceiling on the side that was not sloping ran a line of tiny closets
with glass doors. Another side had open shelves. On the sloping side,
drawers rose from the floor a convenient distance. The remaining corner
had a desk built in the wall; it was large and substantial, containing
many drawers. Two small portable tables were close at hand near the
centre.
An easy chair, an old-fashioned sofa with a large square cushion for
a pillow, completed the furniture of this unassuming study. Neatness,
order, comfort reigned supreme. Not a sound from the busy street
reached us. It was so quiet, so peaceful, the air was so fresh and
pure, it seemed like living in a new atmosphere.
I just sat down and wondered why I had never thought of this very room
for a study. Almost every family has an unused attic, dark, sloping,
given up to odds and ends. Now let it be papered with a creamy paper,
with narrow stripes, giving the impression of height; a crimson velvety
border. Paint the woodwork a darker shade of yellow, hang a buff and
crimson portière at the door. Put in an open grate; next widen the
windowsills, and place on them boxes of flowering plants. Get an easy
chair, a desk that suits your height, and place by its side a revolving
book-case, with the books most used in it. Let an adjustable lamp stand
by its side, and with a nice old-fashioned sofa, well supplied with
cushions, you will have a study that a queen might envy you. Bright,
airy, cheerful, and almost noiseless, not easy of access to those
who would come only to disturb, and far enough away to be cosy and
inviting, conferring a certain privilege on the invited guest.
These suggestions can be improved upon, but the one central idea, a
place to one’s self without disturbing the household economy, would be
gained.
Even when there is a library in the home, it is used by the whole
family, and if the husband is literary in his tastes, he often
desires to occupy it exclusively at the very time you have leisure,
perhaps. Men are so often educated to work alone that even sympathetic
companionship annoys. Very selfish, we say, but we often find it
so--and therefore the necessity of a study of one’s own.
If even this odd room cannot be utilized for your purposes, have at
least your own corner in some cheerful room. A friend who edits a
special department in a _weekly_ has in her own chamber a desk with
plenty of drawers and small separate compartments. The desk just fits
in an alcove of the room, with a revolving-chair in front. What
a satisfaction to put everything in order, turn the key, and feel
that all is safe--no busy hands, no stray breeze can carry away or
disarrange some choice idea kept for the future delectation of the
public! Besides this, one who writes much generally finds that she can
write best at some certain spot. Ideas come more rapidly, sentences
take more lucid forms. Very often the least change from that position
will break up the train of thought.
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