A Space Where Magic Is Born

You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?

If I could build my perfect space for reading and writing, it wouldn’t look like a productivity hack or a Pinterest board. It would look like a life—one that made room for thinking, feeling, wandering, and returning.

The room would have windows that open wide, not just to let light in, but to remind me that the world exists beyond the page. Outside, there would be trees—old ones, the kind that have seen cycles come and go. They would keep me honest while I worked on A Song and Dance for Mother Earth, grounding my words in gratitude and reverence, reminding me that stories, like ecosystems, need care more than control.

There would be a writing desk scarred with use, not aesthetic, just familiar. That’s where About Life Choices and Potholes would live—pages written after wrong turns, pauses, and those moments when life teaches you something by first knocking you flat.

Nearby, a stack of half-filled notebooks would belong to Diary of Clichés, because some realizations arrive only after you swear you’ll never become that person… and then quietly do.

This space would have a couch meant for staring at the ceiling. Not resting—thinking. That’s where Fever Dreams would be written, in the liminal hours when exhaustion softens the edges of truth and clarity arrives without explanation. In those moments, the room would feel slightly unreal, as if it were breathing along with me.

There would be a door that opens onto a street or a park. I’d leave it ajar while working on Beautiful Men: The Dog Walker, letting life pass by—footsteps, chance encounters, fleeting glances that remind me that softness still exists, that sometimes the universe doesn’t instruct, it flirts. The kitchen would matter just as much as the desk, because Beautiful Men: The Chef would be written between meals and memories, where nourishment is not just consumed but received.

At my feet, always, would be a dog. Muddy paws, restless energy, unconditional presence. Adventures of Sauli the Rescue Pup could only be written in a space that allows chaos and joy to coexist—where healing shows up unannounced and insists on being played with.

The quietest corner of the room would belong to Finding Noir. No distractions. No mirrors, except the internal ones. That book would demand stillness, the kind that forces you to sit with what you’re really looking for, long after you realize it isn’t another person.

There would also be a shelf that makes me laugh at myself. That’s where Why Is Nobody Buying My Book would sit—right next to hope and self-doubt, art and algorithms, reminding me that creativity is both sacred and absurd, and that both can be true at the same time.

Most importantly, this space wouldn’t be about selling stories. It would be about telling them. Every chair, window, and corner would exist to support honesty—whether the result is a book, a sentence, or just a moment of understanding.

Because the truth is, all these books were written in spaces that already existed: borrowed rooms, kitchen tables, hospital waiting areas, long walks, sleepless nights. My perfect space is simply one that allows me to keep doing what these stories taught me how to do—

Pay attention.

Tell the truth.

And trust that the right readers will find their way in.