This is where I labor with my writing—in a converted bedroom, after the nest had emptied years ago. When I began working here, the desks were joined in an L-shape. The longest section was out of reach, (manufactures don’t make L- shaped chair mats) and therefore unused. So, Iron Man redesigned it. Since then, every inch is used.

My space is much different from Mark Twain’s pink office with a view behind the desk and a pool table in front. Unlike his office design, I prefer to look out at the perennial garden and twisted oak limbs. If it were possible, I’d have French doors, swing them open, and let nature freewheel in, like Virginia Woolf’s writing shed.

But on occasion, we have rattle snakes.

Sometimes, I’m interrupted by birds on the window ledge, cottontails at the lawn’s edge, and a seasonal turkey whose head pops up like a Jack-in-the-Box, peering inside and scaring me out of my chair. On the weekends, Iron Man taps on the window, bidding me to engage in a different type of work.

Physical labor.

There are many forms of labor, each shuffled into our lives by choice, necessity, or passion. For now–and for many years to come–whatever the challenges may be, I hope the work produced in your space derives from passion.

Happy Labor Day.