The Scene of the Crime

By Peg Brantley, Writer at Work, Stumbling Toward Publication



Tom Adair's post this week inspired me.

I'm forever curious about the spaces in which people live and work. Do they surround themselves with memories, or are they more utilitarian?

Both C.J. West and Tom wrote recently about things people leave behind, and what those things say about them. Well, I'm here. This is where I spend most of my days, and much of my nights.

What you see above is my trash can, and my Buzzy Slippers (they have a buzzing mechanism triggered by pressing down just a little) which I haven't used all summer, but will be perfect for this winter.

This is where I imagine crimes and research them. Where I pit people against their own demons and try and give them the worst possible obstacles to overcome. Or not. This is my scene of the crime.

The candle is important. Not sure why, but it is. There's a fireplace near me too, and it's loaded with wood and ready to light.

The photograph is my mom. She believes in me and tells me constantly that I can do this. She was a very smart lady, and there's no reason for me to quit paying attention to her now.

The bookends are special. The one nearest the photograph says, "Do read to someone. When words are infused by the human voice, they come alive." ~Maya Angelou

Different encouragers include more family photos, and four shelves of books—either research-based or craft based.

I've come to learn that simply surrounding myself with this much knowledge doesn't get the trick done.  So, I've read bits and pieces of almost all of them.

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This photograph is the most important encourager of them all—the Love of My Life. I call him George.

I like my pens, too. They're cheerful.

And that little round disc? That's a remote for the fan. With the candles and the fireplace and the western exposure and certain flashes of the hot variety, it comes in handy.

And finally, my little code words that have nothing to do with a car manufacturer.

I love the feeling I get when the ideas are flying and I'm pretty much in a trance while I write. Way better than drugs.

Now that you've seen bits and pieces of my space, there's something else I should share: I can imagine a critic one day saying that the only crime committed here was Peg Brantley trying to write. But that's another story.