Writing is beautiful. Sitting on a window sill on sunday mornings with a cup of coffee as raindrops race the cold inches from my face. The calm and quiet in my mind, slowly filling the room with words and stories, breathing all around me, reshaping the world into something enchanting. A ray of sunshine that falls on my face. These are the mornings that I love the most, because they feel so much longer than they really are; the way that, when reading a book, whole worlds, empires can rise and collapse in a couple of minutes..
But I want more than these mornings. I want to keep the things I write on more than crumpled pages ripped out of notebooks, soon to be stuffed into the bottom of my desk drawer and forgotten. I want a record of my works, someplace I can add lines and layers in pen and pencil and ink, until they paint the picture I’m trying to capture. Too often do I move on before I am done.
So I’m shaping my own little library. I’ll fill it up with stories; anecdotes and character studies, and maybe a novel or two one day. Snapshots of my life and little piles of memories. Secret hopes and crumpled dreams. Until the air around me is full not only with stories, but the smell of books. One day.