Of all the rooms in my house, I spend most of my working day in what is basically a closet.
It was never meant to be an office. When I moved into the former rectory where I live, this tiny room beside the front door was simply where people hung their coats. It measures 2.5 meters (about 8.2 feet) in length and 2 meters (about 6.6 feet) in width. Last year, I turned it into my Hobbit hole.There was just enough space for a small IKEA desk, a chair, and a few bookshelves. One wall holds a cupboard with all the house’s electronics, and there’s a single square window.
I’ve always loved the image of Bilbo Baggins sitting safely inside Bag End, surrounded by books and familiar things, writing down his adventures while the outside world disappears. That’s more or less what I wanted for myself: a small, warm place where I could shut out distractions and step into a story.
There was also a very practical reason for choosing the smallest room in the house: it was the only room I could afford to keep warm.
Writing with gloves on
The rectory was built in the 1950s, when apparently nobody expected heating a house to become a luxury.
The roof has never been properly insulated. The insulation inside the walls has largely deteriorated. Downstairs there are enormous old windows through which both heat and money disappear at alarming speed.
Last January, I spent around €1,200 on heating alone.
So during the winter I mostly retreat to my Hobbit hole. I keep the rest of the house at a fairly low temperature and heat only the room where I work. Last year there were days when even that wasn’t enough and I sat behind my computer wearing thin gloves.
It turns out that typing fantasy novels with cold fingers is considerably less romantic than it sounds.
This week I finally decided that something has to change.
I had two people from a local energy service inspect the house and explain where the biggest problems are. A company is coming to look at the walls and give me a quote for new insulation. I’m also investigating how to insulate the attic without spending a fortune.
And for the Hobbit hole itself, I’m considering an infrared panel.
Bilbo had a fireplace.
I’ll take what I can get.
The unromantic side of a creative life
I’ve been thinking about this because October has been such an intensely creative month for me.
Every morning I sit in that little room and work on stories. My big fantasy novel is slowly being rebuilt. The children’s book about Pangur the magical monastery cat is evolving almost every day. Then, after several hours behind the desk, I put on my coat and walk into the woods to solve whatever story problem is currently occupying my brain.
It is pretty close to the life I imagined when I decided I wanted to become a writer.
Except that imaginary writers never seem to spend much time comparing insulation quotes. They don’t worry about natural gas prices or whether their hands will be warm enough to type in January.
Real life insists on being considerably more practical. But perhaps those practical things matter more than I used to think.
The stories may happen in my imagination, but I still need somewhere to sit while I write them. I need enough peace to concentrate. I need food, electricity and a room that is not thirteen degrees Celsius.
Creativity doesn’t exist separately from all of that.
A small room can hold a very large world
The funny thing is that I don’t wish my office were bigger.
There are much larger rooms in this house, but I rarely want to work in them. I like being surrounded by bookshelves. I like being able to reach almost everything without getting out of my chair. I like that when I close the door, the room feels separate from the rest of the house.
The physical world gets smaller, and somehow that makes the imaginary world bigger.
Over the past two years, that tiny room has contained medieval Ireland, dragons, saints, magical storytellers, short stories, podcasts and now a white monastery cat who is causing considerably more trouble than I originally expected.
So I don’t want a different writing room.
I just want this one to be warm.
Hopefully, by the time winter really arrives, my Hobbit hole will have received its first major renovation.
No round window or a fireplace. After all, this is not Bag End.
But if I can write without gloves on, I’ll consider it a success.
Fr. Roderick Vonhögen.
P.S. This article grew out of this week’s episode of The Walk. In the full episode I also talk about Pangur’s latest adventures, my plans for a Story Magic magazine, and why this writing retreat has generated far more ideas than I expected. You can listen via the player at the top of the page.
