I'd like to think Virgina Woolf would be proud, and maybe a little envious. I have a room of my own. (And I'm gaining 5 pounds a year, but I don't think that's what she meant by "have five pounds a year.") I am ensconced. There's no other word for it.
The room is nice. It's downstairs in our house and peeks out from under the balcony of the second floor. My bird (squirrel) feeders are outside this window, and once the birds have adjusted, they'll be back. Right now there's one soggy house finch looking miserable and cranky in the bottom branches of the plum tree. It's been a long, wet winter.
My room has, at the moment, two cats (one on my lap, the other staring out the window), two computers and one human. And for writing, that's about the perfect configuration. Toastie, my partner, has set up the computer for me so it gets WiFi. There's an odd-looking thing doing the backstroke on my shelves which he tells me is the antenna.
This is my writing space. My staring-into-space space. I am fortunate, I know, to have this space, so here's my promise not to waste it, squander it, twist, fold or multilate it.