“I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and then I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.” Virginia Woolf
Some ten years after moving into our home, we finished the last room. I thought it would be the most delightful little cave to write in. It’s on the third level of the house, three tiny steps up from the rest of the bedrooms on the floor below. We put in a soft little sofa, some cozy throw pillows. At about nine in the morning, the sunlight peaks though its petite windows. The faint, staccato peeps from a robin’s nest in a nearby oak pierce the gentle breeze through billowing curtains. I never actually realized how perfect it would be until it was complete. And then I sat down to write and I felt, well, isolated. And really, that was the point, except that’s not how I write.
I write on the kitchen table, near a bubbling pot of pasta water. Beside two dogs begging for treats, or fighting over a toy. I write in the din of post-school chaos. Homework pages flying here and there. Near playdates chasing cops and zombies. And a husband who is telling me about his day, and asking about mine. I write in the buzz of love and life.
So, say hello to my little friend. My writing companion, who follows me from room to room. To record a passing thought. All while allowing me to be in the company of my muses, my family.