“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word to paper.”
— E.B. White
I’ve become obsessive over writers’ spaces, those places where authors throw wide the doors of their imagination, spread the contents of their minds out over note cards, handwritten pages, yellowed photos and found objects pinned to the walls; those spots where the author feels safe enough or comfortable enough or inspired, empowered or antagonized enough to draw deep from the wellspring of our collective dreams and wishes and worries, and to spill those contents — buckets of stories, ladles-full of anecdotes and vignettes — onto the page.
Which is to say, I may be stalling.