Obsessed by the Window

I HAVE JUST over two weeks left on The Border. So it's probably time to talk about my little office. I love my office. It's small and it's not ideal -- the writer's office is down the hall from the production office proper, and frequently they forget about us. Which can sometimes be good (lack of drama, privacy) and sometimes bad (call sheets, coffee runs, lunch.)

Couriers, actors, and the generally illiterate frequently miss the nineteen signs on the door directing them where to go, and come in and ask directions or try to drop off resumes, packages, and, you know...uh..whatever...hate literature. And I'm the first person they come to.

It's a small thing, to be sure, but at least ten times this summer people barged in and interrupted me in the middle of a run on a script, and kind of pooched my train of thought. Not cool. Here's a helpful hint: if you ever see a sign saying, "writer's office," or "story department," and you go in, and the first thing you see is somebody with brow furrowed like a pounding on a keyboard -- make sure you're in the right place before you interrupt. Just saying.

My office has also got this weird thing with ventilation. There are four offices in a row down the hallway. The offices on either end get all the heat or cold -- so in the summer I was freezing all the time and now that the weather's turned cold I sometimes feel myself losing consciousness as I sit at my desk, before I realize that's probably due to the fact that it's ninety-two degrees in here. (I maintain that's also the thing that finally killed my plant, Bob. Bob died a couple weeks back. Sorry, Bob.)

What my office does have is a window. It looks out into the parking lot. I can see the sky (important) and also when the really good parking places become available (also important.)

I love having a window. Writers need windows. When I'm not at home and working at home, I usually set up my computer in my solarium and can look out on the Gardiner Expressway (ugh) and Lake Ontario (yay!) Sometimes in the summer at night I can even see fireworks from my window. It makes me happy, cause, hey, free explosions.

When I was on Blood Ties, my office had no windows. I found myself desperately coveting Dennis Heaton's office, or Showrunner Peter Mohan's office - with their sexy views of the trailers and the occasional view of the guy dumping toxic shit into the parking lot. The best view of Maple Ridge was out the boardroom windows where we'd punch up story. On clear days you could see the mountains. They were pretty. They really got you in the mood to write stories set in the decidedly non-mountainous city of Toronto.

So it's with some sadness that I report that there won't be another writer loving up my office when I leave. Nope. The Filmport, the sexy big new studio hoo-ha that's being built, is eminent domaining The Border writers' offices pretty soon after I leave. That's sad. Oh well.

There's one thing I left out about the awesomeness of the window situation in my office. There's actually two. That's right, bitches. It's an embarrassment of windows. The aforementioned window looks out on the parking lot. But the second window looks in to the hallway and atrium. I get to watch as people enter and leave the building. People frequently stop by and look for keys, take cell phone calls, adjust clothing and take notes --right outside my window. It's like a really low budget public access channel, just for me. It's nice. Like videotapes for specially made for cats, the hallway window and the parade of humanity it offers writers a low level procrastination tool that breaks up the day rather nicely, all while offering kind of an interesting rolling social experiment: how long can people stand in front of a window and do all this stuff like they're, you know, not standing in front of a window?

A few times, I've just looked up and stared at people as they adjust, or gab, or do whatever nasty thing they're doing in my direct line of sight. And occasionally when they catch my eye, they get kind of a pissed off look. Which is hilarious, because, um, you know -- window!

I'm sure the clever will have jumped way ahead by this point, to the one downside of this arrangement. As you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares into you.

A couple of months ago I posted a little sign, very small, about halfway up on my window. I reproduce it here for your enjoyment.