I love small spaces… which is hilarious, considering my size.
I don’t know if it’s the writer or the introvert or the sheer silliness of trying to collapse my bones and compress myself into the tiniest space possible, but I just find small spaces comfortable and safe.
Disclaimer: I’m not asking to be wedged into a hamper or anything… CARRIE…
Sidebar: Carrie is my
shorter older sister.
She stuffed me in a hamper and sat on the lid.
We were children… unfortunately, I was adult size.
Despite my recent computer catastrophe, I had found reason for great rejoicing: I shall soon be the proud owner of a small writing garret!
In America, such things are called “studio apartments”, but we all know that a small room on the top floor of ANYTHING is a writer’s garret.
Let us call things by their proper names.
I have an excellent view of trees and grass, and thankfully NOT the local swimming pool, I have all the basic necessities, but most importantly, I have a deliciously tiny space in which to burrow… like a tall prairie dog.
I shall buy orange juice, and a french press and eat off of my china every day.
I shall sing loudly and speak only in Spanish or Shakespearean verse.
I shall only be seen by my neighbors wearing sunglasses and a small (but stylish) beret, carrying a cigarette holder with no cigarette (asthma, you know).
I shall be languid, and yet smoldering with intensity!
I shall buy a baby sloth and call him “Etienne of Navarre”!
I shall never answer my doorbell, and I will constantly be buying those stupid Glade plug-ins to fill my home with the scent of PURE VANILLA JOY!!!
I am well pleased.
Friday, I shall be sailing away to attend the wedding of one of my (many) cousins, so you most likely will not hear from me.
I may (or I may not… I am like the wind… I contain multitudes… I cannot be bound) recycle some of my older posts.
Either way, you shall most definitely hear from me on the Wednesday, the 23rd of October… from my garret.