My early memories of writing are based on cozy places.
I loved writing poetry and short descriptive paragraphs of the world I saw. My short stories were often decorated with little ink drawings.
In the winter, I would sit in the hallway in front of our forced-air heater. My desk was my knees bent in such a way that I could write for hours.
As I reached high school years, my “perch” as Dad called it, was at the kitchen table, on the couch, in the backyard under the walnut tree, or on the front porch. The porch held the sweet smells of Lantana and a lemon bush. If I brushed by the lemon branches a fragrance so clean and pure would linger with me until late in the day.
The Lantana would attract Monarch butterflies. I could point my finger in the air and a moment later a butterfly would perch on it. I was a quiet girl, and just sat and watched.
My favorite pen was a Bic Click with blue ink that wrote smoothly on newsprint, my writing surface of choice. Anyone could write on college-ruled paper. There was something in the feel of the ink gliding on newsprint that felt like satin. I still like it today.
When I got older and in college, my favorite spots to linger changed to the library and my car. I was a people watcher, and enjoyed gathering tidbits of people’s characteristics. That’s probably why I write with so much depth of description in my works. Not too much… just enough.
Today, I sometimes go to a busy mall or at the swap meet and listen intently to all of the conversations.
Those little pieces of dialog and accents become filed away for another story, a story with rich tones, and clear memories.
Where do you write? And what made you begin?