Clear, cold, Sunday morning, in which I sleep an extra hour, rather than get up and stare at frost on the roof tops below me. This past week I have emptied out the tiny cottage beside my house, which is where I would go to write. Moving and boxing books and computers–the things that surround me when writing–I seem to have likewise moved the stirring of my own thoughts. I seem to think differently with my writing place next to my bed.

In a week or two I will become more adapted to the idea of spending hours in this new place, and then perhaps the words will come back to me that seem to be missing as of late. Moving furniture seems to have caused my thinking to become unsettled. Some of us can grab a laptop and run to the local coffee shop and immediately become productive with their ideas. Perhaps I have spent too many years doing most of my career of technical writing in tight little familiar circumstances. Breaking out of my box or office cube seems more difficult than it used to be.

Before computers were invented I would take a paper tablet and a couple of reference books and go find an empty picnic table in a park or campground, and write all day long. I can barely read my own handwriting nowadays, and find that words flow better with a keyboard than a pencil.

I have my eye on an eight-by-twelve building on my property that would be quite suitable for a permanent writing spot, where I might spread out my little area of influence. It’s about a hundred feet from the main house, but currently is full of tools that must be placed somewhere else to make this scheme all come together. Some days I think to myself that I should have bought a much bigger house many years ago, when they were affordable. The one I did buy, a Hawaiian flower farmer’s modest cottage, was only barely in my budget at that time, so that much of my energy is dissipated in moving, adjusting, and remodeling. One day soon I might find the right spot in which to park this writing mind.

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