It’s warm enough now to start spending some time writing in my secret office. It’s tucked away under a big old Norway spruce in my side yard. Nobody knows I’m there—except the occasional mosquito.
This is a place where I like to throw caution to the wind and experiment on crazy ideas that have been tucked away in my mind—growing, taking shape—for months.
Lots of times what I write here just doesn’t work out as I’d originally imagined. Its permanent home will be in a rarely opened file on some archival disk.
But once in a while, it does work. And it turns into the fodder for one of my most innovative manuscripts. For some reason, I seem to do my best writing right around the two solstices.
Has anyone else noticed that?
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