Waist-deep in first drafting mode now, I pause just long enough to share this memory here.
I recall a dear friend’s question when I first told her I was writing. That was a few years ago, and until then I had not shared this with anyone. But I needed my mornings free and didn't want her to think I was spending them doing something illegal or, worse, avoiding her. So I came out and told her my mornings were for writing.
“Oh, wow,” she said. “Do you have a special retreat to do your writing?”
In the popular imagination, writers go on retreats. I know some real writers do. These are rich writers. Others are retired people who have romanticized about being writers, and can finally afford to live out this image. There are whole operations ready to offer these retreats, usually for a good $$$ fee.
There are paintings, and now movies, that re-enforce this^ accepted wisdom.
“Oh, I said. “ My desk in the basement.”
Because reality is a lot closer to this^.
I’m happy to report that I have since graduated to a small desk in the corner of my bedroom, gratis of DH making my computer wireless. But it is still not a Victorian dream.
Or is it? In my mind, the “space” I go to is, pretty much, well,-