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Writing Space: Non-Sedentary


Welcome to a look into what and how I write my works. I find myself to be a non-traditionalist, your A-Typical writer who doesn't sit at a large fancy desk drowning in books but rather let my environment choose me.

Writing Space: Non-Sedentary

Most days my writing commences after a moment of meditation and reflection. Engaging with my practice I call upon elements in my space: my crystals that ground me and remove negative energy, my rosary beads that remind me there's something bigger than my issues, the aroma of incense cleansing my airspace, and a picture to guide my thoughts for that session. In these sessions I do not choose my thought path, rather it chooses me. When it is complete I use that thought path to guide my nimble fingers to cast words onto my page. Unlike you or I, I don’t believe a writing area is sedentary. My writing space I choose is based on the tongue of the piece I am able to whirl. Each day looks different, captivated by different emotions, toiling with feelings of being lost or finally found, an epiphany.

Yesterday I found myself perched upon my roof landing, climbing out the window and perching myself above the world. Someone may ask, “why have you chosen such a vulnerable seat?” My answer would consume ideas of superiority and distance. Yesterday's writing piece held words dear to my guardian angel, where my rooftop seat was 10 feet closer to heaven. Within that hour I wrote about the space around me, the birds chirping, the spring sun glistening upon my skin, and the bicycles coming to and fro. Emotions of grief and confusion overcast the page, searching for meaning in my guardian angel.

But, today looked different. Stepping down from the window and into my parents room. Today's choosing done so purposefully, to engage with another's point of view. I gain the view of my mother, erecting myself in her reading chair, engulfed in her book pile, eyes locked on the lake out the sliding doors. My words express her view that she saw when she was situated here. I peer out the sliding doors and see the water roll in, recede out, hear the waves crash, and wind rush by. Furniture resides, but it no longer has her scent. Her bag remains as full as the day she left. Taking note of the bedside, belongings still intact: glasses, cream, papers. I gain an abrupt feeling as I'm writing, that this house is no longer a home, the cement to the foundation has been removed.

A traveling writer you could presume, my thoughts travel between spaces and places where meanings are etched into the elements of the space. There is not one writing space I use, as that would only conceal my imagination into one seldom room.

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