In the backyard, one of our citrus trees is dying. It’s withered and grey-looking and the sickly fruit it produces is misshapen. Removing it would open the yard a bit, creating the perfect spot for the Manroom.
You know, a Manroom: Solitude. AM Radio fixed to poorly received talk station. Old bottle of bourbon (with wax seal) on shelf near wooden desk. Large leather chair. Typewriter or archaic laptop. Free-standing ash-tray. Cigar smoking encouraged. Stacks of magazines, newspapers. Tins of pipe tobacco. A calendar with picture of cars or women. Now you understand.
And in case you, the reader, are my wife, this article should provide further (and perhaps final) justification for the creation of my Manroom not later but now. Here’s a bit from the article:
Even structures standing no more than 10 feet from the writer’s house offer the precious gift of a separate space. A space dedicated solely to writing, even a veritable hovel, is, for some writers, more sympathetic and more necessary than a house, an office building, or a classroom.
The time is now.