I've been forced to think about what having a writing space means - because I haven't got one anymore. We moved out of our house of twenty four years and are reliant on the kindness of friend while we try to buy a new one - the place we were buying fell through at the last minute.
So, here am I, wilfully torn up by the roots. But oddly enough the writing is going well. I've lost my table, my bookcases and my view of the allotments yet I don't seem to mind. I still have a pen and a keyboard and the draft of my book. I still have my head and my hands and the people I love. These, it seems, are more important, than bricks and mortar.
And of course in some ways it's always the writing that keeps me steady. The writing is the constant. Nothing can rattle that really, because it's a part of me and goes everywhere. And it's not just my writing that I need, but other people's. So long as I've got two books on the go, one to read (I haven't, at present), one to write, I know where I am.