Writing is such a consuming process, the way a scene builds, the way you're standing inside it and surveying what's happening, the details of a room, of character and gesture, the dialogue, the way the moment hits the five senses, and how, when you go over it the next time, you see something new, layer in more detail, trying to bring the scene to life on the cinematic reel spooling in your head.
Today is one of those days when I'm grateful for the work I do, lonely as it is. And yet I have spent a lot of time today clicking through photographs of other places, imagining taking myself there, because one can write (and be lonely) anywhere. I'm lucky in this. Now I have to make myself do more than dream about my lucky mobility. I have to conquer the fact that I don't actually like to travel, I especially don't like preparing to travel, I just want to be there. But imagine painting a scene on that verandah, which is located in Jamaica at Strawberry Hill, which might be the most beautiful place on earth.