The life of a writer in the studio is always a safe place to be. Surrounded by mementos such as my father’s WWII model boats, my kid’s hockey jerseys, and assorted books and paintings, I string to life several generations of spare time. I revel in a place not wired in by phone or TV. Sure, I have the ability to reach the outside world or this blog wouldn’t appear, but the nature of the environs create pause before the boundaries are broken. Of late, I finished the first draft in a new series of novels, and it all started down here. I say down here, because my studio, many of you know, is in an old Michigan basement I’ve re-created to be my haven. Damp, dark, and dank as it was, now it stimulates and caresses well-worn neuro-pathways to exhort any and all forms of art. As my obsession grows with having The Penny placed with a major publishing house, I spend more and more time in the sanctity of my space making sure I stay in touch with why I write, for all could be lost in a haze of rejection, depression and ultimately, the scotch bottle. I jest about the scotch, but I do wonder sometimes if I’d reach the pronounced love affair with any substance prying me away from reality the way F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway and many more in a reaction to the lonely life of a writer. It is lonely. Who do you discuss writing with? How do you explain how your mind works? How do you deal with the ups and downs of publications and rejections? Most have “normal” jobs and “normal” hobbies, or choose to watch TV and capture Pokemon. They have no time or patience to explore the depths of imagination and outside-body experiences as characters parade across paper enlivened only by words. The life of a writer in the studio is an escape, and while that escape is temporary, when I walk up the stairs and greet my house, I do feel as if my work is done for the day. In some far off time, perhaps, as Thomas Wolfe  so enjoyed posthumously, people will feel the same of me. I can only hope to do it while breathing and walking among the many.