December 2nd, 2017

I like reading about other writers’ rooms on Saturday mornings. I very seldom find a mention that I want to save, but when I do, I savor the words. This morning, reading about Barbara Trapido’s room (I had no idea who she was until this moment) her concluding paragraph gave me pause. She writes:

The way I work is to bed down in here two nights a week and rise at 3 or 4am. Then I write, cross-legged, in bed with an A4 pad on my knee until about nine. The mini-kettle and the Mr Illy tin of biscuits are because I can’t leave the room, or I get that Xanadu moment and my fantasy life flies away. Writing novels is like dreaming. My real life returns with breakfast and the room goes back to playing dead. All I use it for after that is email.

I have a drip coffeemaker instead of the mini-kettle and no biscuits (my keyboard gets dirty enough without all those crumbs) but everything else makes perfect sense to me.

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