That’s a text I sent myself one day
Cottages and bungalows and cabins.
Big, soft chairs.
Old lamps 
Corners and nooks and window seats and alcoves 
Places to write become places to live. I like it that way. Even in a big house, I’ll end up in one room, in one corner with a comfortable chair, a small table, a light to turn up or down. A few old and much-loved tchotchkes here and there. A window is nice.
I like looking at tiny houses. Converted sheds in the back yard draw me in. Little outbuildings turned into offices with a single bed or comfy couch in case of company. Or in case the occupant needs a nap. That’s just about perfect.
It’s clear this is now a lifelong pattern. Whatever the size of the place, I live mostly in one room. When I’m tired of it, I go into another room. That’s two rooms so far.
The concept of small spaces seems normal for a writer. Less distractions. It’s cozy enough to be filled with thoughts, or in the absence of them, it’ll contain the angst.