I have an ideal writing spot.
My ideal spot is on a thick cushion that’s faded because it’s tucked next to a large picture window. Matching fluffy pillows support my back and protect my legs from the heat of my laptop.
The window overlooks a simple flower garden with white, yellow, and pink blooms. It also has a bird house in the middle. The birds’ house is a miniature version of my own.
White-bellied squirrels and rusty brown chipmunks with quick grace forage for, and hide, their bounty while I devise brilliant ways for my heroine to overcome great obstacles that concludes in non-predictable yet satisfying way.
My ideal writing spot does not exist outside my imagination.
In truth any place I can find a few uninterrupted minutes in consecutive secession is an “ideal writing spot.”
In the living room, in the dining room, in the bedroom, at Domino’s while I’m waiting for my order, at my desk at work on my lunch break – they all can be productive spots for writing.
I love window seats and hope to have one someday. But in the here and now the ideal writing spot for me isn’t a place, it’s a state of mind.
Humbly submitted by H.T. Lord