I don’t have a real physical space dedicated to writing. I often lament that I don’t have a private room to myself, with creatively soft green coloured walls, a desk just for me, a door that closes, a large window looking onto beautiful scenery, a board to pin up and refer to great ideas, a literal drawing board, inspirational quotes or photos on the walls, and a secret passage to a well-stocked wine cellar. But I share an open and rather cluttered one bedroom loft apartment with a perpetually-stressed grad student husband and an invasive species of cat, in the heart of downtown where storage space is a pipe dream and silence is a distant memory fast fading to myth.
So, when I want to write, I have to do my best to get into a bubble.
Now usually being “in a bubble” is a…
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