Red Room Where the Writers Are

I've been musing over a prompt on Redroom for a blog / essay topic. The prompt—without Chirstmas—has given my head a definite spin. I haven't quite caught it yet, or slowed it down.

I was rummaging through the boxes under my bed the other day, looking at tearsheets from past publications. Perhaps I should scan them all and save them as images of the originals.

1: You don’t mind that you are probably destined for a life of poverty.

2: Roget’s International Thesaurus is your favorite bedside book.

This may seem strange to some, but I’ve discovered an effective writing partner in my parrot. Here’s the situation.

It’s been twenty days. I’ve been working every day and night I can. I haven’t gone outside much. Maybe three times? Last night was the first time I drove in two weeks.

Ignore for a moment the amount of solitude writers require, how we insist on the best room with the best light for our offices, how we ditch out on

Writers of memoirs have a unique dilemma. How to tell their stories truthfully, and not harm or alienate the people involved.