My perfect literary room. I’ve envisioned it a thousand times. There would be vaulted ceilings, impossibly high, made of a dark, smooth wood. Above the ceiling contains silver windows to allow the sun to stream in and illuminate my space. The walls would be covered in bookshelves, all filled with hundreds of volumes that I’ve either read or have every intention of reading. The floors are also hardwood, save for one area in the center of the room. There lies a rug, deep red with black fringes, the plush fabric always slightly warm to the touch. Atop the carpet rests a simple desk, though somewhat large. The desktop has enough space to comfortable house a computer, an array of pens, stacks of unmarked lined paper, and a quill pen standing at attention on the corner nearest the door.
Why a quill pen? I don’t know. I’ve used one before and they’re terribly inconvenient. But regardless, it is always in my writing room.