Sometimes writers bury themselves into caves or dark rooms or a yurt and write. Sometimes writers forget (as much as possible) about publishing and awards and credits that weigh down our names. We return to the basics: a cup of coffee, a pen, paper. If a writer is lucky (or patient) the muse might channel herself through one’s body into letters onto pages that howl at the glowing moon. Sometimes. This can happen in a yurt surrounded by trees (big and tall) and weeds (unruly and wicked) and chickens (goofy) and slugs (gooey) and a winery (across the road) and, yes… the odd cougar (check the paper, I kid you not). Sometimes writers bury themselves in such places to write detective novels that feature a protagonist named Sal who is thirty and works at a bookstore called The Armchair Detective. Sometimes, the world becomes a mystery and we write.
The Laboratory
