What was I thinking? Where did I get the romantic notion about the writer’s life? Years ago, in my mind’s eye I saw an author seated in a leather office chair at her mahogany desk. Surrounded on two sides by floor to ceiling bookcases, she fashioned prose from her private room where nothing interfered with the creative flow, which came to her almost vicariously.
After writing two books, I can tell you this—I was deluded. My idea of an author’s life was as far fetched as they come. Virginia Wolf said a woman writer should have a room of her own. (Just so I don’t ruffle any rooster feathers here’s my disclaimer—men authors can also have their own rooms.) I really like the sound of that. What would it be like to have a room for writing? How about a day of writing without a bazillion other things begging for my attention?
The reality is, my writing retreat is my kitchen table, cluttered with mail and stuff—lots of it. More things compete for my attention than centipedes have legs and there’s no such thing as a completely peaceful day of creative prose and writing has been the most labor intensive thing I’ve ever done.