As I write, I find myself searching for that special place. Restlessness seems to be a problem right now.
Its as if you’re inner thoughts will burst if you don’t start writing down what comes to thought.
Breaking old habits are what comes to my mind, so I’m looking for that special writing place once again….
I enjoyed this post. Great job Ashlee…
Growing up, all my stories and poems and songs and plays – even my first couple of books – went into spiral notebooks. They were badly smudged, with that pesky left-hander pencil smear across most of the pages. I can still remember the smell of pencil shavings and the satisfying rustle of pages turning.
I toted my notebooks and a fistful of sharpened pencils with me just about everywhere. Everywhere is the key word here. Because I wrote. Absolutely. Everywhere.
At the little desk overlooking our front yard in my teenage bedroom, in the closet under our back staircase, in the field behind our house while leaning against a hay bale (with my dog’s head in my lap, as often as not, and my horse grazing nearby), in the dusky, dusty barn loft with kittens playing around me, at family reunions, in the car on the way to piano lessons…
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