Dreaming

It is my dream.

I sit at a plain wooden desk early in the morning after a very long walk with my labs and my wife. My tools are laid out before me: my Macintosh laptop, a hot cup of coffee--the pot and cream nearby,a ream of clean, white paper--the kind that has heft to it when you pick it up (in case I have no power and the typewriter must do), my pipe, a quality lighter, and a comfortable chair.

The room is a library. It opens on two sides to the beach or the mountains; either will do. On a nearby table is the old rotary phone. I would use it to discuss literary matters with my editor. The walls of the room are tall. Where there are no doors, there are built-in cases filled with hard-cover books that I have read, re-read and enveloped into part of my psyche. The focal point of the room is a large fireplace that is crackling, living, and breathing. I take the opportunity to feed it and stretch limbs.



Decorations are sparse and are limited to a few photographs (Hemingway), prints (Edward Hopper), and busts of Washington and Lincoln.



The mixed aromas of pipe tobacco and strong coffee fill the room, mingling with the outdoor scents of ocean spray and beach, or pine trees and rain. I sip my coffee and re-read the work from the day before making revisions as I go along. Then, it is time to write.



I write with a passion, a fervor that is immune to the time of day. The hours are meaningless, and I will not notice the day's progression until the darkness ambushes my senses. Evening brings my time to walk the dogs and take in some more exercise before sitting to dinner with my wife.

The home has one television. Some high-end number, but there is no cable, no satellite, just a DVD player. The viewing choices are limited to historical documentaries about American history, WWII and other general interest topics. The Mrs. has a collection of decorating and cooking choices to view when she is not at work.

We eat a simple dinner accompanied by a glass of good red wine; we then retire to the library to read and enjoy the day's dying fire.

The next day is the same...

The point is this...again, I want to be a writer.