Adrian writes about some International sheds & famous sheds and has some passion remembering his shed days back in Blighty, its a great read.
When I was 16, I decided I would pen a novel that would alter the course of Western literature. But where to write it?
I lived in a small house that was filled with love. In 1970s England, it was also filled with people: my mother, my father and three of my five siblings. The answer lay in a wee garden shed whose concrete floor was cluttered with horticultural implements and strewn newspapers. I cleared a space, set up a desk, and was soon tapping out the masterpiece on a manual typewriter. I wrote by a candle. The air was filled with the odor of a kerosene heater, which tried but never quite succeeded in chasing away the damp. The walls were whitewashed brick but dusty and full of cobwebs and earwigs.
For all its mess, the space did work a kind of magic.
I was within the comforting orbit of the family home but isolated from the distraction of other people’s lives. I was able to write the book, even if it would forever lack one essential element: a publisher. The point, though, is that the shed, makeshift and musty, became an incubator for creativity