Reclaiming My Writing Space: The Office That Fights Back and Characters Side eye.

 Afternoon, peeps. How was your weekend? Well, if your weekend looked anything like mine, you're probably dealing with some degree of burnout physical, emotional, and domestic. For me, the zones I worked so hard to organize and contain into their own personal quadrant… They’re no longer just blending; they’re hemorrhaging into each other like it's their full-time job, and I personally slacked on the memo for overtime. That is all in the course of three days. 

My husband, God love him, because some days I have to remind myself, has turned my office into the household drop zone. His new tactic? Bring everything into the office: laundry, bills, groceries, etc... Like somehow, putting it all in front of me or in my way will make me deal with it faster. Spoiler alert: it doesn't. (SOMEONE please tell me mine isn't the only one.) Like he had to either walk past or through where the hell it belongs before he got to me.

Let’s be clear: this is never just about a room, or the house, or the mountain of tasks, we have to deal with in any given day. It's about what is supposed to be our personal space and shared effort between parents. My writing zone. My sanctuary where the coffee stays at the perfect temp, the ideas flow, and the chaos of the house gets shut behind a closed door or in my case the curtain because this room never had a door. BUT somewhere between laundry baskets, scattered crayons, and a husband who can’t tell the difference between “just set it there for a second” and “It now lives there,” this office turned into a warzone. Oh, and let's add in two cats that seem to think everything needs their personal claw marks.

You know the kind of place I’m talking about, because we all have at least one or six in the house. Where stacks of paperwork and last year's school projects multiply like rabbits, broken pens stage an uprising, and every flat surface becomes a drop zone for everything that isn’t writing. It's getting to the point where even my characters are like, “Yeah… we’ll come back when it’s less apocalyptic in here.” Which doesn’t work when you have fifty WIPS and more ideas every damn day. So, I’m doing what any battle-hardened writer does: I grabbed a coffee, lite a cigarette, and stared into the void that is my office window… while coming up with a half assed battle plan to start cleaning. 

Not because I suddenly found the motivation, because it's Monday and I’ve been the only General on duty for the last 3 weeks or so. More like since the Chaos gremlin got out of summer school, and I got home from Green Bay’s Pack in the Readers. I’ve realized something has to give, and it damn sure isn’t going to be my stories. This chaos? It doesn’t get to win. My stories deserve better. I deserve better. And this space? It's about to remember who it belongs to.

The bookshelves have to get emptied, as that whole corner has become a “temporary” junk pile from back in early to mid 2024? Made worse by cats and gremlin knocking everything off the surfaces when they want attention. It has been started and fingers crossed will be completed by closes of business day, which for me is around 9 to midnight. What I've currently found in my pursuit. I own sticky notes, highlighters, and a filing system. My other laptop is still balancing on a stack of unopened mail and misplaced/ hidden crayons. IYKYK. But at least it’s back in the area where it belongs. Front and Center, ready for the marketing work I keep neglecting to do…..🙄

This isn’t about aesthetics or God forbid, functionality. It’s about power. It's about reclaiming a piece of self, that’s been buried under obligations, exhaustion, and everyone else's crap while you smile and keep pushing forward. Because I know when my space is mine like truly MINE, I show up fully. As a writer, creator, as someone who still has something to say, even after the world tried to silence me into the roll and bullshit, I was never signed up to play. 

Look at it this way for just a hot minute, The Brady’s had Alice. Tabitha had her nose, and all these Instagram moms have good lighting and a smoke, and mirrors act. We are Lucy Ball in Yours, Mine and Ours. We’re every 90s family sitcom where the parent takes no shit. We're the foul-mouthed, tank top-wearing, cigarette-hanging, lukewarm coffee-sipping warriors just trying to survive the damn day.

So, here's your daily reminder: If your writing space is fighting back, fight harder. Your space doesn’t have to be spotless. You don’t need perfection. You need a corner of the world that feels like yours again. It doesn’t even have to be quiet. It just has to be yours again. Claim it. Even if all you do today is kick a path through the mess and whisper “I’m coming back,” that counts. Be careful though, I found a wooden block the hard way then tripped into the other chair where I caught my pinky toe. Remember your characters will thank and reward you, hopefully with the next beat of the story. Your sanity will be able to weave itself back together before you snap.

Breathe. Eventually, like me, order will restore. Maybe around August 6th. What about you? When does your chaos dial back just enough to reclaim a little piece of yourself?

Remember Be Brave, Be Bold, but Always Stay Humble.