My writing corner is nothing special. A desk in front a window looking at the water, that is when all the tree leafs have make way and the winter wind comes back.
There’s a long blue couch thing, a couple of thin bookshelves.
A fluffy fern.
A picture of my kid, smiling bright.
The little place is more on the practical side of things.
Back in September, for a week or so, that’s where I slept, fold countless loads of laundry and tried to find a smidgen of mental space to write.
My mother-in-law, who was staying with us while she was recovering from a big surgery and required, needed 24/7 attention during that time.
One morning, stiff as heck (little blue couch is indeed little), I woke up at 4am, determined to write. All was quiet. All was good.
Peace, at last.
For about 3 minutes anyway.
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