There are five big, old windows in the living room alone, three of which form a drafty, yet immensely lovely bay. The corner of the oversized sectional I bought at a store-closing sale when I had a job is my workspace; the area to my right, my office; and all around me, a view.

As a newspaper editor, I worked for years in a dark shoebox of an office with no window, my constant view the rear ends rushing past my door, heading to a meeting or the restroom. A print of Gauguin’s “Street in Tahiti” hung on the dark paneling of that tiny office. “My window,” I’d explain to anyone who admired it.

It’s nearly two years ago that the job I did for nearly two decades, the job I thought was mine until I decided to leave, was “eliminated.” I was one of thousands of newspaper workers nationwide felled like corn stalks snapped in crop circles.

So, I no longer have an office.

Heck, I don’t even have a desk.

But I do have a view.

When Michigan’s mercurial weather permits, I work outside. I wrote about it in this short piece.

When the weather isn’t quite so cooperative, I work in the living room.

While one workspace is outdoors and the other indoors, the basic set up is the same.

My Macbook Pro, my iPad, my graph paper, my iPhone, my cordless phone, my retractable Sharpee pens, and my beloved lead pencils are always within arm’s reach, as is a usually cold cup of coffee and bottle of water. My necessities spend the day atop a Danish coffee table/ottoman on wheels. I love this piece of furniture because it’s so handy: I can move it this way and that to block Ted the Labradoodle from bothering me when I’m writing. Ted, hopelessly in love with me, is always nearby, always hoping that I’ll pitch aside my work and scratch his ears.

Here is Ted, stalking me from his favorite perch
on the back of the sectional.

That dog and I have a lot in common, both of us doing what we do best  — me, writing and running my website universe; he, looking good and keeping a close eye on me — within eyeshot of the goings on in our neighborhood.

I regularly survey my creative fiefdom from the drafty front bay. I see my mailman approaching and meet him at the door, always certain that someone has finally paid me for work I’ve done. Usually, though, I am wrong about getting paid as my mailman instead delivers armfuls of catalogs, which is kind of funny because I don’t buy much these days.

Lucky for me, what I want isn’t anything that can be bought. I am reminded of this every weekday at about 2:45 p.m. when I look up from my work to watch my kid walk the last block home from school.