Being a writer is being a window – an interface between inside and out. On one side, you can see into the other. Inside, from outside – point of view. Inside, a fire, cocoa warm bath with whip cream bubbles. Outside, from inside a dry winter, or cold drizzle. I sit from the inside well and warm, look to the outside icy death. I stand on the outside with elements on my skin, staring into the interior-life. Sometimes, when I look through the window, nothing is there – no one…sometimes, I can tell someone has just been there by the bits of clothing strewn near the overturn lamp. Strange how something is the same about being in or out – – point of view. I always recognize there is ‘some other place.’ Somewhere where I am not.
Being a writer is being a window – touching both places: simultaneous. One side old with rain worn paint, the other radiating heat. It is the interface between. Itself remains clear. When it is dark, outside a window, inside (often) there is light.
Allison for the Poplar Grove Muse