When I start a new house plan, I usually have a general idea of how big I want it to be and how many bedrooms it will have. But from there, the process is rarely starting completely from scratch.
A lot of my designs are a continuation of something I was already thinking about in another house. Many of the homes I design are long and narrow because they're intended for the narrow coastal lots that are so common in the areas where my plans are built. I might finish one and immediately start thinking: What if this became a small L-shape? What if the primary bedroom had its own wing? What if I moved the primary suite from upstairs to the first floor?
Usually I can think of three or four ways I want to do it, and I actually have to stop myself from trying to design all of them at once. I have hundreds of unfinished plans for exactly that reason. Sometimes I leave one behind because another variation starts working better—and that becomes the winner.
For me, designing a floor plan feels a lot like working through a puzzle. I can go around and around on something as small as a primary bathroom for hours—or days. I might finally decide the problem isn't the bathroom at all and move the entire suite to the other side of the house.
A plan starts feeling finished when all of those pieces finally fit together and I can mentally walk through the house and like the experience from beginning to end.
I think about walking through the front door. What do you see first? Do I want you to see straight through the house to the view beyond it, or does this particular home feel better with some privacy between the entry and living spaces? If someone is standing at the front door delivering a package or a pizza, can they see everyone sitting on the couch?
Neither answer is necessarily right or wrong. Sometimes I specifically want that long sightline through the house. Other times I want the living spaces to feel tucked away. And sometimes I love an idea in theory, draw it, walk through it in 3D, and realize I don't like it at all. Then I find another way to accomplish the same goal.
I do this with the everyday spaces, too. Is the laundry room too exposed to the living area? Is the pantry really big enough? Does the dining area feel tight? Have I designed essentially the same primary bathroom too many times and want to find a more interesting way to make it work?
More than anything, I picture people actually using the house.
I envision people sitting at the island while someone is cooking—how they're moving through the kitchen, reaching the pantry, talking to the people at the island, and still seeing what's happening in the living room or outside on the deck. I think about the sightlines from the kitchen and whether you can look up from what you're doing and enjoy the view.
I picture the owner waking up, walking from their bedroom out onto the deck to check the weather and catch the sunrise. I picture where people naturally congregate—whether that's a small sitting area that becomes someone's favorite corner or the main living room when the whole family is together. I think about what someone sees walking down the stairs from the bedrooms in the morning, just as much as I think about what a guest sees walking through the front door for the first time.
Because many of my homes are elevated, I also think a lot about the experience of coming upstairs from the garage. If you're carrying groceries, is there a smooth path to the kitchen or pantry? Sometimes that's the obvious priority.
But other times, I might want you to come upstairs and have a completely different experience. Maybe you emerge into a space where you immediately see the island, a vaulted ceiling with beams, the living room and the view beyond it. Instead of feeling like you've entered your house through a cramped utility space, you get this little moment of appreciating your own home.
The four frames above are the same trip through Haddie's Hideaway, in order.
That's also why designing in 3D is so important to my process. I can't imagine designing without being able to virtually walk through the house as I'm working. I can come through the front door, walk down the hall and see exactly how the kitchen and living spaces begin to open up. I can see the vaulted ceiling, the beams, the island, the windows and the deck from the perspective of someone who will actually live there.
Of course, sometimes I want both things. I want the dramatic arrival and the perfect grocery path. I want privacy and beautiful sightlines. I want generous rooms and efficient square footage.
Eventually something has to win.
That decision can depend on the shape of the house, where the stairs naturally need to land, how much square footage I have to work with, and even who I imagine living there. A family home might lead me toward one decision, while a retirement home or vacation house might lead me toward another.
Usually, I choose the configuration that gives that particular house the greatest overall benefit.
That's probably the simplest way I can explain how I design. I'm not working toward one formula for the perfect floor plan. I'm trying to imagine how someone will experience this particular house, solve all of the competing little puzzles along the way, and get as many of those decisions as possible to work together.
And when they finally do, there's a very satisfying moment when I can look at the plan, walk through it in my mind, and think: There it is.