Spring has arrived in the mountains. It’s always a couple weeks later than down in the valley, and though the mornings are still frosty, the leaves have unfurled, and the dogwood wears its white petals. I’ve filled the hummingbird feeders and opened the windows to capture the afternoon sun.
And my writer’s room beckons.
In 1929, Virginia Woolf wrote that “a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
Well, that money thing would be convenient, wouldn’t it? Yet, it’s not a prerequisite for writing in my mind. Time strikes me as the rarer commodity.
But what about that room of her (or his) own, that “must” for the imagination to bloom? A sacred space of quiet and solitude without the common daily distractions of television, movies, and videogames? A space where a writer can shut the door?
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