This gorgeous handwriting and book-crammed office belongs to Laird Hunt, author of Neverhome. Here’s what he has to say about it:
In a sense, everything I am, everything I have been, for some good number of years now, goes into and comes out of those colored boxes where my various drafts and manuscripts live, and out of that box filled with my old notebooks (plastic because of the floods that swept Boulder last year and also because of the mice that like all our nice paper things), where years of my noticings have come to rest. I have sometimes wished that my now fairly old and highly uncomfortable office chair had some kind of usage meter, so I could have a sense of how many hours I have spent sitting in it, but that might just be scary. The truth is that I have always also done a good part of my work while in motion though, on the street outside that little window and in the foothills that lurk just beyond. I might thumb a book, perhaps a treatise on Civil War imagery pulled from my shelf, then set out the door to turn it around and around in my mind.
Basements aren’t for everyone but I have always worked well underground. I stayed in a cave in Greece for a few days once and think of it sometimes as I sit at my desk — the mix of light and shadow and the weight of the world pressing in. I can feel that pressure, from all directions, when I write. It is not unlike the way I imagine it might be to live, like the pinhole photos I have taken over the years to help bring me closer to the past, in a sturdy frame. Which makes me think of those raised beds my Indiana Grandmother liked to fuss over in the Springtime, beds full of onions and lettuce and spinach and kale. A desk is not unlike a raised bed. Things grow up out of it. Look close at mine and you will see a little dirt.