Lately I’ve been doing a great deal of work on PUSHING WATER, a novel in revision, and getting the final drafts of FISH KICKER ready for its publication that’s coming in March 2014. Most of the day I sit at my desk, in my seven foot long office space, nose glued to the computer screen. Everything I need is close at hand, even windows to look out so that I don’t feel as though I’m in a prison cell of my own making.
Before we downsized and moved into our one bedroom apartment in Manhattan, I had a huge 12X14 room all to myself. Now I share space with a walk-through galley kitchen on my left and the living room to my back. I’m never far from my comfy red recliner and I often sit here for hours with a printed version of a work in progress, a red pen in hand as I clarify scenes, correct tenses, and cross out extraneous phrases. The light is perfect. On the dark stormy days, when the sky turns black and the rain beats against the windowpane, I turn on my lamp and I feel like a cat snuggled into a familiar, warm corner.
But a writer cannot live by words alone and I must get out and visit the trees, the land, watch shadows creep across the leaf strewn grassy fields.
There are paths to explore, paths that led to mysterious and compelling locations, paths that I often feel obliged to take.
Then there are the unusual encounters. Just when I thought I’d seen everything along a frequently taken path, I found this tree smiling, the sun shining on its craggy bark.
The other day while on one of my relaxing walks, I saw a reflection of the sun on the Central Park Reservoir that looked like a splash of diamonds floating across the surface of the water.
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