A room with a view: How author C.L. Polk's 341-square foot writing studio is all they need

Leading up to Canada Reads, CBC Arts is bringing you daily essays about where this year's authors write. This edition features The Midnight Bargain author C.L Polk.

When I read the email inviting me to contribute to Where I Write — specifically, the part where it said that the article would include pictures of my space — my feelings blended themselves into a stew of absolute fright.

Like many writers, I write at home. That's not so strange. But I have lived here for 11 and a half years. In that time, I have allowed less than two dozen people past my front door, including building managers and repair specialists.

Why? Many intertwined reasons. Back then I had come perilously close to homelessness. But I've always been a particular kind of lucky — when I'm on the brink of losing everything, the universe lends a hand.

This time, the universe gave generously. I lucked into an apartment with support from a mental health social worker who helped me get what I needed to heal. I could live alone, and what's more, I could stay for as long as I needed to.

I needed a sanctuary, and this 341-square-foot studio was it. After a few years, I relaxed enough to do something I hadn't done in nearly a decade: I started writing again. I have written all my books in this healing, solitary space that was mine and mine alone. (Virginia Woolf was right. She very often was.)

I wrote my first novel while looking out my window at an open field, where magpies and ground squirrels went about their autumn business. I fell asleep while coyotes yipped and sang outside all summer long. I opened the windows to welcome the scent of the May trees every spring, and I watched the snow blanket the ground every winter.

There's a secret in my books. The season described in The Midnight Bargain is a reflection of what was outside my window when I first started writing: spring, delicate and green and just awakening. Witchmark begins in the week ruled by golden-leafed aspens, their glory falling to the coming frost. Stormsong starts off in the first snow of the earliest winter, and Soulstar marches through the deep, layered snows of a winter that has outstayed its welcome.

I never quite feel comfortable trying to work in a café. I write at home, where my computer sits on an unfinished wooden table I bought from Ikea. It faces the big windows of my apartment, not even two steps away from my bed. I listen to whatever music my mood demands. I am alone; I am free; I may write and dream as I will.

But things are changing, aren't they, now that so many of us are home all day but still have tasks that are better done face to face? It's the age of Zoom, and we use it for everything from town hall meetings to D&D night. My writing space where I looked out at the world has become a place where, suddenly, people can look in.

And oh boy, do we. When I'm in a Zoom meeting I can't help it — I peek over the shoulders of the faces in gallery view. I'm checking out their bookshelves, their accent walls, their choices and personality and lives on display. We science fiction and fantasy writers sometimes put up green sheets of paper and use the greenscreen effect for fun — we simulate flying through outer space replete with stars, comets, and nebulas most often, but one person had a picture window with a view of Isildur and Anárion standing sentinel along the river Anduin, guarding the entrance to Nen Hithoel. (That was a good one. I'm still impressed.)

But sometimes it's not quite that lighthearted. Judging another person's home is an ancient tradition, and these days the opportunities are rich. Actor Lukas Gage posted a clip of himself attending an audition on Zoom. The director, unknowingly unmuted, criticized the actor's home. "These poor people live in these tiny apartments," he said. And while Gage was right on the ball with his response, the whole incident gave me secondhand squeamishness. On Twitter, @ratemyskyperoom scores the background of celebrities making a video appearance at home with a rating between 1 and 10. While it's meant to be tongue-in-cheek, it still gets the worry engines running: what would people judge, if they were looking over my shoulder?

So the idea of taking pictures for this article tastes of terrifying top notes, with a salt-tears mouthfeel of scrutiny and a rolling, anxiety-laden finish. There's plenty in my home to judge. But wouldn't it be interesting to get a glimpse into the nest that saved me from the streets and let me grow into a novelist? I'm not sure about so many eyes. But it's natural to be curious about what only 25 people have seen, I think.

Maybe just a peek? A little one? Ok.