Otherwise known as, “Where am I going to write?” or “How am I supposed to write there?”
As a writer, I migrate around the house. In the summer and into late autumn, I can be found lounging on the deck and scribbling on a pad of paper. In the winter, I’m working at my desk computer like a proper person. In the spring, I often sit in the front room staring out the window while I plan and plot, jotting notes on printed out pages of my story.
But that little breath between autumn and winter leaves me lost. I wander from place to place in the house with my most recent project in hand. Often I just give up and watch TV or play games on the computer.
The transition from outside to inside is too harsh for me. It’s a quelling of my spirit. An theft of my freedom. It leave my wheels spinning for about two or three weeks while I get acclimated to being an indoor person again.
My cats feel it too, often crying at the door to go outside again, even though there’s usually a bitter wind blowing. They poke their little noses an inch out the door and then scurry for the warm.
I’m working hard on editing the second Sylvia story, Sly as a Fox. I want to have it ready to go on the heels of the first book, On the Sly, release in mid-February. Make sure everyone understands it’s a whole new series.
So, I wander from room to room with my binder and red pen. But lately, I’ve discovered it’s easier to red-line my manuscript in a quiet corner of a restaurant rather than battle this desert of non-writing.
Whatever we have to do, right?
Wendy L. Koenig 