On a recent Massachusetts road trip, I stopped at the Berkshire home of Edith Wharton, one of my favorite authors. It’s a lovely mansion that she designed herself. In an upstairs parlor I asked the guide if Edith wrote on the large wooden desk.
The guide replied, “No follow me. She wrote in bed.”
My friend and I started laughing because I too write in bed. The bright Victorian room was filled with light and charm. A display explained that for publicity purposes Edith posed in front of a desk strewn with writing materials. In that era, it would have been a scandal if people knew the truth.
Soon the guide wove us back to the tour’s end and encouraged us to return to any rooms we wished. I made a beeline to the bedroom, looked around, jumped on Edith’s bed, and posed while my friend snapped a few photos. I’ll never feel embarrassed again to admit I write in bed. Edith’s muse met her there and now so does mine