If you're working with paint or clay or melted glass, your studio may be a space that can get messy, a place where you can splatter color all over the walls and light things on fire and spill and scatter . For a writer, that space is called the Page. There, you can make grammatical stains, let greasy plot drip all over, and watch characters dribble coffee on the carpet.
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| The (current) view from the kitchen window |
I love the mess of the Page, however, I must return, from time to time, to my grounding studio. When my story seems lost, when I can't remember what drew me to the characters: at those times I enter my studio and rediscover the longing that drives creativity.
For me, the bus is a studio, because it is a place that reawakens my creative ache, but a studio does not have to be a physical space. A season can be a studio; every fall, my desire to knit is reawakened. A studio can be a steaming cup of tea, an excellent book, oil lamps and wood heat on a cold winter night, a memory or an image or a song.
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| The bus at night |
Where/ what is your studio?
How do you reawaken your creative ache?
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