The Scribbler's Cove

Before we moved to Hawaii, before I knew anything about where we'd  be living, I told my husband I wanted a writing room. I needed my own dreamspace, a doorway I could walk through and become a writer, a storyteller, a weaver of words.

I didn't have much hope in this wish. Housing is tight in Hawaii, and I have five children. How could I expect to have a room all to myself? Well, maybe I could share it with my writing daughter, but still, it was hard to justify.

My husband arrived in Hawaii a week before I did. He called me in the middle of the night to tell me about our rental house. It was smaller than we had expected, but, "There's a perfect place for your writing room!"

"Are you sure? Maybe we should use it for another bedroom."

"No, it's too small to be anything else."

At first I didn't believe it. But when I got to Hawaii there it was, just a tiny office room with one big window. For the first week it stored all the extra boxes, but as I finished unpacking I began to set the place up--a desk with drawers to store all my writing files, a book shelf for manuscripts and reference materials, a big tack board for maps, outlines, drawings, research, and other stuff, a mirror so I can study facial expressions, a white board for notes and calculations, a phone line, an internet cable, my laptop computer, some sewing and craft stuff for when I need a change of pace, and my favorite big comfy desk chair.

"We need a really awesome name for this room," my daughter said as she tipped herself back in the chair.

"I agree. The Writing Room just isn't good enough. We could call it The Writer's Den. Or how about The Writer's Cove?"

"Ummm," my daughter wrinkled her nose. My naming wasn't going so well.

"I like calling it a cove. It goes with the island theme. But Writer's Cove isn't enough.  It needs to be something more dramatic. Coves tend to have names with danger and mystery, like Pirate's Cove or Shark's Cove. Dead Man's Cove. Smuggler's Cove."

"I'll think about it," my daughter said.

Late that night, as my husband and I poured over plans for the bookshelves we wanted to build, I heard my daughter coming down the hall.

"You should be in bed," I said without looking up from my notebook.

"I know, but I've just thought of a great name for our writing room. It's so good I had to get out of bed to tell you."

I set the notebook down. "What is it?"

"The Scribbler's Cove!"

Perfect. Now all I need to do is go to the beach and find a piece of driftwood, carve the name on it, and hang it over the doorway. Welcome to the Scribbler's Cove. Some dangerous scribbling is going to happen in here.