Until a couple months ago, I never had an office. Whatever real estate there was in the apartment, the house (for which I was typically paying the bills), that room went to my partner. He “needed” the office. He “couldn’t work” without an office. So I had the bed for my writing during the days. I think that’s where the habit of (clearly) too many pillows developed. One to prop up the computer. Others to prop up whatever books I have open when working. I’m single recently for the first time in my adult life, and am presently redoing my bedroom to exorcise some sad ghosts who need to go. What do I want it to look like? What do I want it to be? Still considering. But the truth is, turns out, now that I have my very own office, I really hate offices. Probably because I spent too much time in the principal’s as a grade school kid. Places to be bored or get into trouble, I think. What better place to make poetry than in one’s bed? Intimate, private, a contemplative space, and hopefully peaceful. And, honestly, I think many women artists have always had to learn to make shift without their own space. So now I have a room of my own, even if it’s symbolic. But it’s an important symbol.