Give me but a window seat with only the light of the day for inspiration or stars coupled with a sliver of the moon, a closet dimly lit to stare into the stupor of my mind and all of the characters who live within.
I suppose it is simply an unspoken “do not disturb” sort of respect I feel I deserve. However, we all know that as a mother and wife, even going to the restroom unaccompanied is a fantasy.
For those of us who write we want only for our passions to be seen worthy; for it to hold a certain validity and therefore, also stirring an understanding of the craft.
If you were to ask the design of my “writing room” I, for you, would paint the portrait of silence. A place where only the monotonous ticking second hand of the clock above my head sings a song of peace. The extricable section of my day, if it were, where I live a thousand lives in as many different forms of myself. I dance, I walk along rivers I have yet to see, save only in the many worlds of my mind.
It is of a certain obligation that each of us unlock the worlds and characters from their detention because you see, for those of us who compose into words the palaces and hovels we envision, the world within lives and breathes as surely as the composer.