My Office: Fall Edition
How a simple change of scenery kickstarts my imagination
Years ago, I read a book that changed my life as a writer. If you haven’t read The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, grab it now! My copy is well-worn (aka has a few appropriate coffee stains on it). This writing bible was lent to me by my writing friend Ari, and I’m sorry-not-sorry to Ari, but I’m still holding on to it!
My favorite piece of advice in the book is to change your scenery to get a new perspective. This can be as simple as walking a different way home. Sitting on a different bench at the park than you usually do. Frequenting a new coffee shop. Working in a different room in your home.
It’s my third year now living a “four-season” life in the Hudson Valley. Compared to Los Angeles, where I was born and lived for decades, it’s so easy to get a different view. Every day’s environment looks and feels different than the one before!
One of my most important rituals, which aligns with The Artist’s Way, is to move my desk outside for September and, as long as possible, October. Here, facing my front yard, before I begin my writing for the day, I notice:
The last vanilla hydrangeas blossoming in the sun among their strawberry creamcicle cousins.
Bees zooming around nature’s final wildflowers. Go, bees!
A tree looking at its reflection in a post-rain puddle.
Newman the Groundhog hauling his pudgy body across the lawn, preparing for winter. (He was waddling too fast to photograph).
An elegant Rose of Sharon solely singing to the sun.
Burning bush leaves getting ever more hot and bothered.
A herd of clouds following each other, migrating across the sky.
Red berries on a holly bush perfecting their shapes for the holiday season ahead.
A truck filled to the brim with apples sputtering by. (I daydream about hopping on one and eating all the apples while the driver listens to John Denver, and when we arrive, he finds me fat and full sitting in the truck with apple cores surrounding me.)
Milkweed plants releasing puffy white seeds like paper airplanes, a precursor to snow.
More beneficial than inspiration for specific language or expression, what I gain is feeling. A feeling that pours subconsciously into what I’m writing, whether it’s an article about courageous leadership or a Substack about why poetry is essential. And feeling is the single most important outcome a writer can provide for their readers.
If you’re feeling stuck in your writing, don’t know where to start, or are looking to invigorate your writerly spirit, grab a card table or a cardboard box, roll your office chair outside for the day, and get a different point of view—literally.
