Being a writer is being a window – an interface between inside and out.  On one side, you can see into the other.  Inside, from outside – point of view.  Inside, a fire, cocoa warm bath with whip cream bubbles.  Outside, from inside a dry winter, or cold drizzle.  I sit from the inside well and warm, look to the outside icy death.  I stand on the outside with elements on my skin, staring into the interior-life.  Sometimes, when I look through the window, nothing is there – no one…sometimes, I can tell someone has just been there by the bits of clothing strewn near the overturn lamp.  Strange how something is the same about being in or out – – point of view.  I always recognize there is ‘some other place.’  Somewhere where I am not.

Being a writer is being a window – touching both places: simultaneous.  One side old with rain worn paint, the other radiating heat.  It is the interface between.  Itself remains clear.  When it is dark, outside a window, inside (often) there is light.

Allison for the Poplar Grove Muse