We have been in our house less than two weeks. I have gotten to write in my office a handful of times since then. It has been glorious. Having a workspace in the home, but up a ladder and out of the way of normal household raucous, can do wonders for your writer concentration. There is none of that, “I need to just put on a load of laundry, clean the kitchen, organize the pantry,” nonsense that so often accompanies writing from home. In fact, I am getting an electric kettle and a stash of tea, non-refrigerated snacks, and a slop bucket so I never have to leave. (Okay. Not a slop bucket. But you get the idea.)
Today is a gloomy sort of day. A gray sheet of clouds has formed a cocoon around my hill, allowing me to fold my body around words until something new is formed; a fluttering, living creature, ready to meet the world. The trees have begun to bud out tiny green leaves. They curl in, not yet ready to face the season of growth ahead.
I’m not gloomy at all. Just thoughtful. And thankful.
Writers describe the days they spend hunkered over their computers, pouring their real selves into their fictional world, as being in a writing cave. I like the image that conjures: an expanse of darkness, a glowing lamp, damp glimmering walls. But this is not a cave. It is a perch. My writing perch. As a fledgling writer, not yet ready to fly (or my book not yet ready to be printed) this nest above the ground is a safe place to test my wings out. To nurture my words and the characters created by them. To dot i’s and cross t’s.
To take flight and never look back.