I get an odd little pang of envy when I see movies about writers who live in woodsy cabins where the wind blows and the snows pile up — even if they eventually wind up being stalked by psychos or haunted by demons or possessed by cabin fever. There’s a kind of cozy uncluttered-ness about their isolation. And a kind of deliciousness in having all that time and space to redesign their universe, along with their loved ones, should they be so lucky to have companions.
But then this morning — looking out on the snow burying my car for the sixth day straight — I thought: that delicious snowy cozy writer’s life is mine. I live on the storm-prone north coast. Between my two computer screens, the snowy forest fills my eyes. Squirrels play. Deer come down to browse. Crows and geese can be heard overhead. I write.
Black coffee in the morning. Red wine in the afternoon. Art. Books. Music. Craft supplies. A cranky old parrot for a pet. A husband who makes soup. A fast internet connection.
What more could I want? A little haunting?