I look over the balcony on a hill in Echo Park. The view from my air bnb is brocaded with homes, large and small, old and new, cascading down the hillsides, sporadically shaded by trees. On a distant hill there sits famous Hollywood sign. Fascinating sentinel. In the early mornings I walk down the mile-ish hill to a coffee shop or maybe down one of the long long staircases, computer bag over my shoulder, to take my place at a tiny table, one of the many that are filled with writers of books, movie scripts, fantasies, studies, jasmine tea in little pots steaming beside me. I choose between several different coffee places within walking distance.
As I walk I meditate, usually with a chant inside myself, breathe deeply. The day bursts into my writing fever, little stories, plans for radio or television, now that my first book is done and how to get that “out there”. The embryo of my second book grows.
Oddly I have always found writing was hard for me. It pushed at my head and my heart but often felt like it was stuck inside a locked box somewhere. In past lives I am told, I was killed for my unusual ideas. This life I am aware that as if having membranes round my will, my words, my desires, I have had to break open before I could flow. It’s a lot like learning to channel. And it became easiest in a neutral place, a coffee shop or deck where I can cogitate and not be distressed by the domestic duties that call me. I write now when it is flowing, in a state of Being the writing for the hour or so before I return to do my treasured work.
A few months ago I finished my first book that way. Wherever I had little periods of time between work, writing in restaurants in Bellingham, Costa Rica, Vancouver, Portland – wherever my travels have taken me at the time. I treasure my morning escapades. I treasure the respect of the creative spirit nurtured by the communities in these little cafes!
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