I'm adaptable ... ish. I can write in cafes and hotel rooms and in the quiet car on trains. I can even write with music, as long as it's classical, doesn't have lyrics and I have easy access to the off switch. I can write in a house full of people, as long as they're not, you know, in the same room. Or talking just outside the door. Or obviously having more fun than I am.
But really, for me, there's always been a perfect place to write, and this is where it's always been. A room like this, with a sleeping cat (size doesn't matter), cushions, a comfy robe, good lighting (I'm willing to use a lamp - not everybody can produce their own) windows onto a view, a bit of birdsong offstage. And solitude.
You can feel the serenity. You can practically touch the contentment - and the focus. How does Durer do that? I don't know. Art's a mystery.
I wrote recently about how writers are like flamingos, how we need each other. And I still think that's true. But this is the other thing. This room, or as close to it as we can find.
And a sleeping cat.
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