The editor did call and apologise for his oversight and mistake (see Brooks Reads, Brenda Fumes July 2010) and the writing course material (see The Craft June 2010) arrived in the mail yesterday. So, all is on track again in my writing world; more than on track actually.
With the enclosure of the small balcony off our bedroom, I now have a dedicated writing room: a room to call my own in Virginia Woolf tradition. My desk sits at the window with a view of the North Shore Mountains and the grubby roof-top next door. I have the white citadel of Queen Mary School (see Queen Mary School July 2009) to inspire me and the shabby balconies of neighbouring apartments to give me a window on humanity. Look up and I see the open sky, look down and I see the back alley with its activity of Lonsdalites passing through. Look to the left and I spy the water, the West End, Stanley Park and the dumps of yellow sulphur at the docks.
But more than the view and the activity on the other side of the window, it's the room itself, as incomplete as it is, that calls out the writer in me. Off-cuts of carpet cover the floor, M's tools are stored in a corner and a plastic storage box fills the wall on the other side of the small room. I'm realising that my caramel-coloured wicker chair is a little low for the desk but it works for now. I set a candle on the desk and lit it to commemorate crafting this, my first vignette in the writing room of our apartment. I hoped it would lend some atmosphere to the room, yet, the flame flickers half-heartedly and struggles to breathe above the pooling hot wax. I dislodge the wax and the flame burns brighter.
I'm not waiting for this room to be perfect to enjoy it. Besides which, to reduce the craft to its simplest modern-day form: I require a desk, a chair and a computerised writing implement. I have all three in this little room of mine. Now: to write more.
With the enclosure of the small balcony off our bedroom, I now have a dedicated writing room: a room to call my own in Virginia Woolf tradition. My desk sits at the window with a view of the North Shore Mountains and the grubby roof-top next door. I have the white citadel of Queen Mary School (see Queen Mary School July 2009) to inspire me and the shabby balconies of neighbouring apartments to give me a window on humanity. Look up and I see the open sky, look down and I see the back alley with its activity of Lonsdalites passing through. Look to the left and I spy the water, the West End, Stanley Park and the dumps of yellow sulphur at the docks.
But more than the view and the activity on the other side of the window, it's the room itself, as incomplete as it is, that calls out the writer in me. Off-cuts of carpet cover the floor, M's tools are stored in a corner and a plastic storage box fills the wall on the other side of the small room. I'm realising that my caramel-coloured wicker chair is a little low for the desk but it works for now. I set a candle on the desk and lit it to commemorate crafting this, my first vignette in the writing room of our apartment. I hoped it would lend some atmosphere to the room, yet, the flame flickers half-heartedly and struggles to breathe above the pooling hot wax. I dislodge the wax and the flame burns brighter.
I'm not waiting for this room to be perfect to enjoy it. Besides which, to reduce the craft to its simplest modern-day form: I require a desk, a chair and a computerised writing implement. I have all three in this little room of mine. Now: to write more.
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