A memoir: stories from the home office

When I first started writing this column back in the ’80s (gulp), I worked and wrote in a newspaper office. I clicked away on a typewriter in a dreary cubicle for a small-town paper that no longer exists.

After several years of toiling in an environmentally questionable space for a difficult boss lady, I moved on to the Heralds. I worked in-house for a terrific boss lady, most of my time devoted to my editing job and part of my time spent on my column. I could ask someone to look over my story before I filed it; there were writers known for their expertise in grammar or spelling or clever leads.

After another decade or so, I left the editing job and the office and continued to write my column from home. I took up another business as well, leading book discussions for civic and social groups around Long Island.

Today I am among millions of Americans who work entirely from home.

Friends ask if I get lonely, but how could I? Zoe the dog is here every day, right at my side. And what a terrific colleague she is. Totally cool with Bob Dylan blasted at top volume, she can quietly groove to rock ’n’ roll for hours on end. She knows how to make me laugh and (not a small thing) she is an excellent grammarian. When my bones get stiff from sitting too long, it’s time to take Zoe for a walk. In the old office days, when I felt tired, I yearned to put my head down right on my desk. Now my nap time happens to coincide perfectly with Zoe’s.\

There is very little competition between us. And no back-biting, except in pursuit of the occasional flea.

I don’t set an alarm. I don’t punch in or out. On the downside, I have to self-start. So if I feel distracted, it can take me all day to write a 750-word piece. In between I may decide to plant tomatoes, put up a split pea soup, clean the attic closet or organize my spices. It’s easy to procrastinate.