“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
- Virginia Woolf
Apple-green walls, a desk large enough to accomodate a spread of papers and maybe a single, white tulip in a glass. A wall of bookshelves, a chair and a lamp. Some sort of rug to cover the scuffed wooden floor. A long-held dream is coming closer.
To celebrate (or maybe it’s just timing), I fly through the first draft of a new story. I’ve earned it; my last short story took me eight months before I knew what was going on. Even after all that, can I really say I know? Well, it’s as finished as I can make it, at least for the time being. And I know well that this first draft, a rare feather blown in on an easy breeze, is simply that: A beginning.