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Today I took the plunge, forgetting that I have a tendency to float like a boulder! I figure it was time to create my personal space, one where others will come and share a glass of bubbly, red, zin, or any of the myriad choices. The point is, I’m hoping for company, for kindred conversations, and for friendship building.

I’m a writer. Attached to the act of writing is the prerequisite that I spend many days and nights and weeks and years alone with my thoughts. I admit, sheepishly, that I relish this requirement. But, you see that is the problem. Writers, or shall I be most honest and say “I” am perhaps better suited to spend that time alone, than to feel imposed upon by the nagging of well-meaning friends who would love to rip me from my keyboard.  Don’t make the obvious assumption that I don’t like people. Actually, I am quite fond of a few folks. And even this is not enough to coax me out of the closet I call an office.

I work in a closet because it is there that I have created my cocoon, my safe-place, my muse of a walk-in. Seriously. I’m not just joking that my office is small. It’s really a closet. It isn’t that I am drawn to self-abuse. And it isn’t for lack of space. The “office” is actually in the room that a visitor would see as my office.  My office is a room within a room. And it is filled with inspiration that no one else will see, unless they happen to find me there, hunkered over my thoughts in the shadows of boxes and files.

My last office was a large room with a wonderful, seasonally changing view of the delightful courtyard. It pleased me to gaze out the window and ponder the birds as they sang, listen to the breezes lightly licking the petals or whipping the crap out to the brush in dark winter’s grip. There was much to view, and the sights were ever-changing. And that is a problem. My mind would escape the path I had instructed, and would dilly and dally and go out that window. Too many times I had to reel it back in, scolding myself for allowing the distractions.

I moved with my laptop to the bed, but found it far more comfortable than I should have been, so I moved the desk from the window and convinced myself that it was a good move. Writer’s block hit and I didn’t draft a page! So I emptied out the walk-in, and created a psychic queue for myself. Now, whenever I walk to that “office” and sit at my desk, my mind immediately tunes to the station that feeds me the fodder for text. I’m akin to a Pavlovian dog. I see a closet and I start to drool…. Words drip from my brain and I write.

At any rate, I have dribbled enough for today. I’m off to write a change of address to send to Hay House in the UK as they have my latest manuscript and I hope to have them find me in spite of my move to a new town! Wouldn’t it be tragic and irritating to submit a manuscript, wait for twelve weeks for a response, and then get lost in the mail…. It’s a perfect universe, I tell myself. They’ll find me. You did! And I’m glad you did!   🙂

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