It was Virginia Wolfe who said it was important to have a room of our own, I would add that a home of our own is equally as important.
The flat we lived in, here in Notting Hill in West London, was my first real home, twelve years ago now. Before moving here I lived in shared flats and rooms in Nurses’ Homes, none of them ever felt like my real home, they were merely places I lived in. Moving here, at the time changed my life and finally gave me my first real home, a place I could leave my mark upon and shape to my life. It has certainly given me a stability I never knew before.
Unfortunately, with two of us living here it has grown far too small. I lost my writing desk many years ago to the pressures of space. As a one bedroom flat we are now living on top of each other. Finally found a lovely, two bedroom house in East London that we could actually afford just before Christmas and, tomorrow, we finally move into it – the progress of buying it was a nightmare. When we are finally in there I’ll be able to have an study were I can write and work, and that’s a dream I’ve had since I was a teenager.
I’m so excited about the move, it will be a wrench living here, my first real home, but we’re moving to a beautiful house were we’ll have all the space we need to live. With a study I know my writing will triple in output and hopefully I’ll actually be able to finish the novel I’m trying to write.
Of course, before all that we have to move from to there, oh joy of joys, moving…