My writing room is a sacred space. It is disarmingly simple. I am greeted by a plain table, a side chair, fresh flowers, pens, lots of ink, spiral notebooks, pads of French writing paper, and a dictionary.
It’s my private retreat where I go to open up to all the beauty, light, wonder, and color of my daily life. Once there, I enter into a flow state, a gentle trance, where I’m out of body, out of time—at one with the moment, at one with the world. In my isolation, no one corrects me, edits me, changes my grammar, or suggests I use a strange metaphor. No one gets near me to suggest I write fiction or I use a word-processor to “be more productive.”
I think best when I…
