As I sit here, thinking about what to write, I settle back into my chair and contemplate my surroundings. Glances outside, to staring ahead inside, helps me to realize how lucky I am to have a warm place to write.
My kitchen table is a portal to other worlds for me, forward in time, back; my characters my own life and that of my family, sit at this table. Ahead of me on the wall above the stove a large rooster plate lit by the light under the fan hood. I should name that cock because like Mary’s picture on the bed in Under the Tuscan Sun, my kitchen-kock watches over me.
I am safe here and warm and all around me are things to spur me along, people to support my muse and a wealth of memories as grist.
I can write anywhere, with almost any amount of chaos swirling around me, but if I’m here, at this table, ass in this chair, with indoor plumbing only a room away, my journey is easier and more comfortable.
For someone who talks too much and doesn’t ask enough, a question, where best do you write?