it would be lovely, that fantasy writer’s world, but in the end, it’s a bore, just being by oneself…where would the next idea come from, if not from the other jostling mammals? 😉
It wasn’t so long ago where a novelist spent all day (for weeks and months at a time) isolated in a room, office, or designated “away” space (like a hotel or cabin) to do nothing but write. When I was younger, I glamorized the profession as I imagined being part of it.
The sandalwood candles burned low, their wicks swimming in a pool of melted wax. I sipped on the glass of merlot I’d poured earlier and stared into the fireplace, the logs popping cheerfully and flames flickering an amorphous pattern, bathing the corner of the room in a warm glow. Strains of Vivaldi danced through the room, inspiring my muse, who then roused my passion for the tale. The words flowed from my head through my fingers, marring the pristine white page with the angst of my characters. I wrote, “The End,” with a flourish and added the last page…
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