A Dream In Violet: Where Will You Write?
Yesterday it snowed. My house backs up to woods and right now the trees are covered in the cold cotton of winter. It’s astonishingly beautiful. It’s nature’s pearl necklace, her statement piece, a couture adornment.
I have a desk in front of a large window in a room upstairs. It looks out into the woods and I could be there right now, writing. But I’m not because it snowed and that means no school. Instead, I’m sitting on my bed in the middle of a pile of laundry taking the opportunity to write a few words before my kids come in from filling a wheelbarrow with snow.
If I had the chance to work in my ideal writing environment, I think it would be in a cottage (with fast internet access) on a cliff overlooking the sea in Scotland. I’d have a table by the window. The curtains, heavy wool tartan, would help keep out the draft. I’d sit in the most comfortable chair wearing a locally knit sweater and high-waisted yoga pants. I’d drink french press coffee and eat doughnuts. I’d write, of course, while looking out at the water. I’d wonder if a girl had ever stood at the edge of the cliff, breathed in the sea air and then flew as high as the gulls, higher and higher, until the pain she’d felt for so long ceased. I’d hug my sweater a little tighter.
Or…
In the mountains, by a lake. A log house with rustic finishes — fewer antlers, more quilts. I’d write by a large unobstructed window with a view of the lake. I’d occasionally take my work down to the dock and eat wood-fired pizza and drink Italian wine. I’d watch a turtle swim across the stretch of water avoiding fallen limbs, and climb the muddy bank to rest on a rock and soak in the sun. It would remind me of pleasure found after a hard journey, a hero’s journey. And I would write.
Or…
I’d travel to Finland and stay in a glass igloo. I’d write while the snow piles up around the glass and imagine a traveler in an unknown land, losing his way while seeking a power he isn’t meant to have. I’d get as close as possible to see each individual flake. I’d lie on my back and watch the ice and snow fall, trickling down the panes. I’d eat warm bread with cheese and olives and drink frothy beer and wait for the lights. Once dark, the night sky would be brilliant with color and I’d be brought to tears by the beauty. I’d fall asleep surrounded by magic and dream in violet.
For now, though, I’ll settle for whatever time I can get in front of my window upstairs.
Where will you write?
