Revitalized slightly, submitted to Masters Review contest on May 30, 2020
Imagine, a cabin. A single room with a small kitchenette, indoor plumbing, electricity and a fireplace.
The picture window facing a lake, trees, nature.
The desk, positioned below the window, is void of clutter. Just how it has to be. Empty except for a laptop and a coffee cup.
The chair is comfortable and ergonomically correct.
It’s soothing to look outside, not distracting.
Writers hate distractions.
They also love them. Writer’s block will result in clean houses, sorted laundry, home-cooked meals.
Everybody knows that.
Which is why the writer needs a cabin like this. To write, not clean or sort or cook.
Coffee is the only distraction, but it feeds the senses. And it warms the soul.
Her mind wanders. She glances toward the bed, thinking, dreaming.
She knows he knows about the cabin.
The bed behind her is pushed against the wall. You can see the fireplace when you’re in it, feel the heat if the fire is on.
The fire is always on. It’s that time of year, after all.
The leaves are turning color, falling to the ground. Watching them while sipping coffee treats the mind to think of more words.
The keyboard is ready.
Just type the words, she tells herself. The words will come.
And maybe, so will he.
*This piece was written and published previously under a pseudonym. I decided to import it here, and share it with you.