Okay so the post itself isn’t a guest post. Actually it’s a scribble that my thirteen year old brother wrote for me about my room. I thought it was really funny and so true, so I asked him if I could post it here. Anyhow, I’ll quit boring you all, here it is.
The Writer’s Room
The sole purpose of the room is writing; the miscellaneous junk reflected that purpose. You see, writing is more important than cleaning up the ever growing collection of gum wrappers, dirty clothes, snack boxes and coffee cups. Blank paper number one, sticks out like a cat in a dog park and number two isn’t blank for very long.
Furniture is organized to make the writers life easier. The bed is right next to the computer for late night inspirations. White boards and chalk boards, along with sticky notes and 150% devoured books, lined the walls. This is a room where writing is easiest.
But it still wasn’t completely easy. First, you had to cross the minefield of pens. Then you would have to decide on which of the endless supplies of writing utensils you would utilize. Everything (walls, writing paper, non-writing paper and even skin) could be, and probably already is, written on. Why, you ask?
Because this was not a room. This was where maid Marion sat, writing letters to her love. This, is where D.R. Watson wrote out he and Sherlocks daring escapades. This, is where Phileas Fogg gambled, and hatched the ridiculous idea that one could go around the world in only 80 days. This, is where she took emotions, and transformed them into words. This, is the writer’s room.
*EDIT* FYI my room isn’t quite that bad. And it’s usually quite clean. Just have to defend myself.