My Writing Room #LifeBooksWriting

This is a brilliant day. May 6th, post Cinco de Mayo recuperation, a Friday I hope to fill with more sunny moments. I’m writing a weekly blog post on different subjects important to being challenged as a writer. Follow me along on this journey every Friday from now until they come to take me away. Please let me hear about your own writing office, desk, smells that make you go hmmmm . . .

It begins, however, with the stench of death. My writing room is flooded with decay from a critter unknown, chased into the office by Eartha Kitt’n and Ajax The Gray, Gandalf’s long-lived feline. They are indoor-outdoor siblings, moving stealthily from the back forest, the total fenced perimeter patrol duties separated by a game of paw, claw, purr.

It’s Spring and to get to the smell I knew all the books, boxes, and paper had to go into recycling. Chores with Rosanne Cash singing her greatest hits in the background somehow move into the accomplishment category with better ease. Still, no mouse. My desk, a roll-top behemoth is the focal point against the far wall, beneath a newish skylight that has a screen and a moving blind if the sun becomes too much. Here in the Pacific Northwest, this isn’t really a problem. Bring on the 80 degree weather promised for the weekend. Heat is moving into the area, and I’m not just talking about that Trump-roast political stooge who has promised to make a stop down in Lynden, Washington tonight. Someone asked me if I was going, and, being a citizen he wouldn’t approve of, only laughed a polite no. I have better things to do. Cleaning the litterbox is only part of my Friday afternoon plan. Driving south to Seattle on a Friday afternoon, waiting in hours of blocked traffic? No way. I did do this for my favorite writer of the moment, Stephen King. His new series of books beginning with Mr. Mercedes are terrific. Finding the dead mouse carcass is much better time spent than listening to Trump bloviate about how presidential he thinks he’s becoming. He acts the part of a buffoon. Entertaining? Not to me. Mean people stink as much as this dreaded poor mouse I hope to find and bury before Eartha Kitt’n brings me a new sacrifice. Eartha Kitt’n is the one that looks like a Maine Coon and Ajax The Gray is in the background in hunter-Sphinx mode.

There are four paintings hanging on the log walls. These are abstract paintings by my father, George Bogdanovitch, and I cherish each and every single one of them. The earliest two are from a series he painted in the early 80s, while the most recent he finished in the 90s. One he gave to my mate in late 1989 for being a constant companion and friend. Beneath this painting is my heavy desk of oak. Stacks of books, papers, notebooks, hats, speakers, wires, eyeglass cases, earbuds, Post-It Notes, Justin Bog books, writing help books, bills, fill the desktop, and I wonder where I’ll clear these items off to when I get nearer to moving the desk from the wall. Not my clean floor space. That’s for sure. At this point, the recycling bin, a large blue receptacle, is now full. Find my father’s painting used as a concept for my first literary crime novel, Wake Me Up!

I hope I find this mouse soon.

I can’t breathe well.

Help!

ever,

Justin

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