The Cat’s called Dickon. I am generally referred to as ‘Please Sir’ (if its my 8 year old addressing me), ‘Spouse’ (if spouse brings me tea) and ‘You owe me money’ by most others.
They visit me in my hut. If hut is not too small a word for the cedar octagon you see me in here. We moved to Salt Spring Island about six months ago. The realtor said, ‘Oh, I have the place for you’. The house is lovely, in a forest, with glimpses of Fulford fjord. But the studio! Artist-made for an artist, stained glass, copper flashing, a stove. In winter, I chop wood, make a fire, grab a vat of coffee. My desk is right in the centre, under a long, woven lampshade – the point where the energy pours down. I look out through huge windows at deer grazing and several of my three hundred Douglas Fir or Maple. Other writers say rude things to me.
My chair is ergonomic and just uncomfortable enough to keep me awake – I can’t read in bed or anything with padding. My desk is awash with whatever I am working on.
I sit in my leather recliner (Spouse does not like me calling it a Lazy Boy) and sometimes just stare. I always dreamed of a place of my own to write in. I thought it would be a cramped, semi converted tool shed. This feels epic and intimate at the same time.
Bit like my books?