It's IWSG Day. The goal of this blog hop is to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds. IWSG is the brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh, our brilliant ninja leader. The awesome co-hosts for September are: Gwen Gardner, Doreen McGettigan, Tyrean Martinson, Chemist Ken, and Cathrina Constantine. To find a list of other contributors and to link to their posts, click here.
This month's optional question: If you could pick one place in the world to sit and write
your next story, where would it be and why?
Until this past weekend, each morning I spent my writing
time at a drop-leaf table in front of a picture window overlooking the commuter traffic that buzzes down our road. On dark days, I had to put a
light on and from the outside, let’s just say I was visible. I suppose most passers-by
didn’t give me a glance, but more than a year ago, a neighbor I don't known particularly well stopped me one day. “What
are you doing in front of that window?” he asked.
Since then, I’ve felt too front and forward— a target for anyone
to say, “You’re a writer? Have you written anything I've heard of? Oh. You’re
not published?
It made me want to move my writing space away from that
window, but the only place to go was to an actual desk, a cumbersome roll-top
with a shallow front, too narrow to fit my lap-top. It was not a quality piece
and had become a junk-collector. We’d shove things inside, pull the top down
and forget them. It was tall too, and if we swapped it with my
writing table it would block the window.
We decided to replace it with a regular desk, but had no interest in making a
major investment. We scoured online sites and took field trips to antique
stores, searching for a used piece to blend with the mismatch of furniture we’ve
inherited from family, but had no luck.
Months passed—and I found myself hopping up from my table and hiding when
the neighbor who’d asked the question drove out of his driveway each morning.
Then, last Saturday, my husband and I stepped outside to discover a line
of cars parked down our street. An estate sale was underway in a house that
just sold. It’s at the end of a long, private driveway and I was delighted,
since I’d always wanted to see the inside of it.
"Wanna go?" I asked my husband.
"Wanna go?" I asked my husband.
"Sure." He shrugged, used to my curiosity.
Honestly, we weren't thinking about buying anything. I just wanted to tour the house. But there, two
hundred yards from home, we found the exact desk we’d been looking for and at a yard
sale price. Call it fate. Call it karma. Call it right place/right time. Hallelujah! We wrote a check and hauled it home.
So back to today’s question. If I could pick the perfect place to
write? Well, of course one’s mind drifts to a writer’s retreat in coastal Maine,
or an open window overlooking the azure Caribbean. But I know myself. I’d be
too distracted. My place is here, at my new-to-me leather-topped desk in
the corner of our living room, invisible to the cars speeding
by.
As for the roll-top? We purged the junk and lugged it down to
the end of our driveway and taped a “free” sign on it. A young couple loaded it into their car
about an hour later. I like to think good karma hit twice last weekend.
Where would you write if you could?
