It's a long corridor, a hallway to nowhere, with a window at the end facing a wooden fence. Our apartment is a commercial space between a Karate Dojo and a Mercedes Dealership ("Just like us" I tell people, although I'm not exactly sure what that means). It once was a coffee shop, although it was meant to be an art gallery, with lots of wall space and hardwood floors.
I wouldn't write about it otherwise, but I feel that I have an uncommonly good workspace, which, unfortunately, means that isn't usually conducive to work. There's more pressure because I can't make any excuses ("Uh, my roommate wouldn't leave me the fuck alone" "The guy next to me wouldn't turn down his fucking headphones").
I used to write in Coffee Shops (Luck Bros. in Grandview Heights, Ohio is a great one) because as David Mamet brought to my attention, if you sit around the house all day writing people will wonder what the hell you're doing, how come you're not out at a real job, but since my brother was kind enough to let me move in with him and he's never home, I don't really have that problem.
It can be a very lonely place. Sometimes I feel like I'm sitting at the end of a gun barrel. Sometimes a birth canal.
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