Cozy, Crafty Cave—A.T. Bennett

When it comes to writing spaces mine can best be described as organized madness. A chaos which, much like the weekly horoscope, must be perfectly imperfect in order to inspire.

I can only write well (or, at least, coherently) at precisely one place, a wooden desk set in my bedroom. There I sit—a merry goblin tippy-tapping at the keyboard—surrounded by carved coal puffins, iron owls, animal skulls, glass pomegranates, colourful threads, and melted blobs of forgotten candles. I keep a tidy collection of reference books close at hand. They rest more or less atop my very own miniature Library of Alexandria (piles of books that run the gamut of mystery, fantasy, and horror.) Add to such an artistic environment are mounds of black tissue paper, envelopes, business cards, and various leather goods—as the day job pays the rent and must not be ignored.

I'm a peculiar breed of author, you see. One that can only thrive in the most claustrophobic, stuffiest of conditions. But I do keep a row of dilapidated plants on my windowsill! They provide me with a modicum of “oxygen” and in return I keep the cat from nipping at their leaves.

Sometimes, for a treat, I even water them.

My special corner is, in short, a bomb site … but it wraps me up like a warm, welcoming blanket. There is a strange type of security to be found in such a space. Not a single inch of my desk does not either inspire me or alarm me. Admittedly, every now and then, there is an avalanche of clutter. I get distracted, leave the pens where they lay and elbow back the rest of the deluge. When the flammables edge too close to the candles I know it’s time to do the unthinkable and clean, lest I burn down the building.

I need silence, darkness, solitude, and a sprinkling of “weirdness” in order to write my best work.

Long live my cozy, crafty cave!

A.T. Bennett