where the writers are
Anonymous Writing

The wee hours of the day have been the most productive for me. Waking up before dawn while darkness still glitters with lights outside the window, the silent, sleeping house where the only sounds are the ticking and cracking of the house settling, the smell of dew through the open windows as the sun prepares for its daily climb and the peace of silence. Sometimes it is not enough to get the ccreative juices flowing and keep them flowing. I need sound, light, and the press of humanity to get it right, and sometimes I need books, lots of books. That's when I take my laptop and go to the library.

Surrounded by books, hemmed in on all sides by the weight and press of knowledge, comedy, tragedy and words, I find the muse again. Among the other laptop bearers and milling patrons wandering the towering bookshelves, I am anonymous, one person among many. Many people glance at me in passing but pass on, unwilling to break the silence, sure that I am in the library for the WiFi and surfing the net. It doesn't matter because I know why I'm there. 

The muse haunts the aisles among good books and bad, fiction and nonfiction, clambering about in the spaces and sinking into the pages to wait for someone to notice that book is the right one. I chase her among the stacks, lure her from hiding and carry on a conversation in silence, anonymous, focsed, a conduit for words and phrases, characters and plots. And I write. 

Coffee houses, restaurants (where they actually expect you to buy something for taking up space), diners (same thing) and a picnic table in the park are all find for a moment or two, or until the battery in the laptop runs down, but the library is better. Seeking the osmotic transfer of words to virtual paper is my game, capturing fire on the page, meandering between comedy and tragedy, filled with inspiration from the genius and foolishness leaking from the pages is where I sit and burn. It's my favorite place, a chance to be among the writers I admire and pen my stories and articles so that one day I will join them among the whispered confidences and silent hush of shuffling feet paused momentarily before a book that speaks softly, seductively to be taken.

No one rushes me. No one expects me to buy anything--food is not permitted in the library. No one expecs me to move on or give up my seat. Book lovers and seekers, the homeless man who sits and reads the daily paper before going on his daily rounds, children rushingpast while their mothers hush them before setting them loose in the corner where books are more pictures than words, the housewife perusing magazines for recipes and clothes, teenagers reading forbidden books sitting cross-legged on the floor and all manner of people visit, linger and go, and I remain for an hour, for two, sometimes for a whole day, in perfect harmony with word and page, creative and content.