Writing in the Kitchen, in the Presence of Those I Love Most

At around eight by ten, my office is the smallest of our small bedrooms. I claimed it as my workspace when we moved into this, our third residence in seven years and the first in all that time that felt semi-permanent. I pushed what used to be our tiny kitchen table up against the room’s only window, pleased to find that, during the day, at least, there is no need to turn on a lamp. We painted the walls a soft green-blue that reminds me of sea glass, and I hung up original art all over the room and arranged my bookshelves facing the desk. I’d never had a dedicated writing space all to myself, with a door I could close. For two years, it was my primary workspace, the backdrop for all my video meetings, the place where I began to work in earnest on my next book.

Then we got a dog, and I pretty much stopped writing there altogether.

We brought Peggy home in November 2020, six months after my mom died. Peggy is on the short list of reasons I am still here and functioning. She’s a family dog, for sure; she loves and looks out for all of us and will happily nap on any available lap. But from her first day with us, I think she sensed that I was kind of broken and needed her in a way the rest of the family didn’t, at least not quite. Sometimes I imagine her thinking, in dog language, Wow, you seem awfully needy. That’s not a problem for me! This could be why the two of us have such a deep soul bond. Or it could be because I often carry dog biscuits in my pocket; who can say.

She doesn’t go in my office, or in any of the bedrooms. This is partly a concession to my severe allergies and mild asthma—my allergist suggested maintaining some “dog-free” space in the house that I could “escape to”—and partly because none of these rooms are puppy-proofed. Peggy is an angel and I will not hear a word against her, but I don’t know that I could trust her exuberant bulk or wide-swinging tail around the breakables in my office. I suspect she might also try to nose some of my books down from the shelves (she goes for the easy marks: the paperbacks and galleys, not the hardcovers). Obviously, I didn’t get a dog so that I could spend most of the day in a room she doesn’t go in.

So now I write at the kitchen table, which sits in front of some windows under fairly new recessed lighting that I also never turn on because artificial light often feels like an attack to me. I particularly like this spot at one end of the table because it has the best view of our Japanese maple tree, and if I squint I can glimpse people walking in the park down the street. I can also look up from my work and see the beautiful handmade bysparkfull weaving I acquired a couple of months ago. (For a while, I tried using the countertop behind the chair as a kind of standing desk, but that didn’t last long—I hadn’t realized how often I like to look out the windows; it felt strange to work with my back to them.)

Peggy often naps at my feet, curled up between my chair and the wall—we call this her Writing Buddy Position. She can maintain it for hours. We are all inspired by her effort.

The kitchen definitely has its disadvantages as a workspace. It’s a high-traffic area and an open space, connected to the living room; you can hear everything happening in almost every other corner of the house; I get distracted watching people walk by with their dogs. On the other hand, it’s easier to remember to hydrate with the refrigerator just a few steps away, and I have to take a break and join everyone for dinner because they’re trying to serve and eat food on my work surface. I can hear what every member of the family is up to; I can be part of conversations. I am still a writer on a book deadline, of course, frequently lost in my document, but in this room I have no choice but to be a human, too, and attend to other humans.

For the last couple of years—especially when my kids were home doing remote school every day—I got used to working on my book with the sounds of the household all around me. What started out as challenging gradually became normal, even somewhat comforting. Now, on the rare occasions when I do retreat to work behind my closed office door, it can feel a bit isolated (and not only because I know the dog misses me). Maybe I’m just not a writer who’s meant to work in peace and quiet, as lovely as that sounds.

On the first Sunday in February, I was sitting at this warm wooden table, my spouse working a few feet away and the dog snoozing at my feet, when I finished the draft of my second book. I could hear one kid singing along to music as she drew pictures at her desk, the other kid laughing on the phone with her friends. This book is about a lot of things—grief and class and what it means to belong to people—and it is also about how our deepest bonds can and do persist, despite time and wounds and separation and loss. Perhaps it makes sense that much of it has taken shape in the presence of those I love most.

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