July 18, 2015

Write Right Herecoffee

I’m working on revising a rough draft of a novel.  I have a skeleton there, but there is a long, hard way to go. I look at the mess and wonder if I’ll ever make it, if I’m wasting my time.  I took a break and saw a pretty picture of a coffee drink, and started dreaming about writing places.

I want to write in a quiet cafe with wood-paneled walls, leather cushioned booths and intriguing pictures on the walls.  I’d have a latte with a design swirled in the foam, and an almond pastry.  A stranger walks by and says “It’s unfortunate she found that,” and I’m off and running.

I want to write at a picnic table in the woods, in view of a lake where I’d just gone kayaking.  The warm wind ruffling the leaves of the trees overhead would join together with birdsong as a quiet background noise.

I want to write in a room at the top of a tower, with a large window looking out over a valley.  My broad oak desk is full of interesting knickknacks, and a nearby wall has a bulletin board full of inspiration pictures.  I stretch, climbing circular stone stairs to the roof access, and out in the wind, I watch the sun set.  The solution to my character’s development comes to me, and go back in to write some more.

I want to write in a shady pavilion on the beach, sitting in a sling chair.  The waves hit the white sands with a soothing roar and the scent of salt water is refreshing.  I have a frozen lemonade at a little table next to me, and I promise myself a nice swim if I get this chapter down.

I want to write in a cottage in a big easy chair next to a fire, with snow drifting by the window.  The air is chill, but I have a blanket over my lap and a cat curled up next to me.

I want to write on a sleeper train, late at night, listening to the clatter of the tracks and imagining a complicated murder mystery involving a lost letter and a secret engagement.  The train is taking me to a city to explore with my friends and family, and I am excited for the adventure awaiting me.

I want to write at a Sci-Fi convention, collaborating with several friends.  We work silently for a while, writing with a frenzied focus as people in costumes walk by our table.  Then we share ideas, tweaking and rearranging the plot of a shared story.  Someone asks to join us and we are delighted to work with a well-known fantasy author who shares her insight and experience.

I want to write in a fancy resort with a balcony overlooking mountains.  There’s no need for me to pause my writing for cooking or cleaning, since I have meals delivered and a maid coming in every morning.  When I need inspiration I go out on a hike.

I want to write in a library, but not just any library.  The ones I see in librarian magazines, with beautiful architecture, comfortable furniture and quiet nooks.  A library of massive size but designed to welcome readers of all types.

I want to write in a secret room of a mansion, a windowless hidey-hole accessed by a staircase behind a false bookshelf.  The little room is full of cleverly designed storage, and the desk has plenty of light.  I feel snug and safe.

Where I am is not that terrible.  I’m sitting in a comfortable chair, watching the sun set through our window, the dying light illuminating the piles of books, toys and dishes on the coffee table, the figurines and pieces of the Heroscape game spread out all over the floor.  The dog walks up and casually punches me with his paw, asking for attention.  My son comes in and wants help getting ice cream.  My daughter comes in and wants help designing a creature for a story of her own.  The fish tank burbles.  Explosions and screams from the tv come from the other room.  The doves cry.  Now the dog is staring at me with sad eyes, his head on my knee.

Not bad, actually.  I want to write here.

 

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