|hot black tea with honey|
But now I make my way to a door in the back of my bedroom. Opening it reveals a flight of board steps worn grey over the years, and weights on ropes. I switch on some lights, and as I pull the weights down to the floor, I see the light through the opening door above me. I climb these steps too, writing materials and tea in hand.
A real attic is a delightful thing to have, and a thing I had never experienced before we moved to this house. Especially to those who have for many years had The Magician's Nephew and Little Women as companions and inspiration, an attic provides much more than the sum of its parts. A hideout of any sort you please; dim and still and old. Many delightful adventures and beloved stories have begun in places like this. With rain pattering now on the sloping roof above me, the cars sweeping by on the wet pavement might be any poetic sound my imagination suggests. Enchanting birdsong comes faintly through the vent and the sweet smell of beeswax wafts from the candle by which I write.
Here, where I have set up a writing desk, hung curtains on strings, and strung lights from rafters, I sit, think, write. It is a timeless place somehow. With little electric light or modern conveniences, thoughts can travel far -- to distant lands, over many years past. This could be anywhere -- Great-uncle Merry's attic, Professor Kirke's house, or Narnia itself.
|doodles as I write|
But most often, I'm Jo,"writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul," for although I haven't a novel to work on at present, I do occasionally find the urge and inspiration to write on and on, never sure of what the finished product will be--if it ever does finish-- nor what goes on about me. Not always the best thing to do, but it is rather freeing never to look the clock.