My dad and lived in the boondocks. A road cut through the front yard and on the other side of the road was a lake filled with catfish, alligators, and snakes. To the right of the house was a cow pasture that rolled out for miles. In back of the house were more cows and Highway 27. To the left of the house was a field. I spent a great deal of time in the house alone.
I was 16, and if I turned up the music and danced, who was ever going to know?
I didn’t hear the knock on the kitchen door. The boy I had a crush on walked around to the side of the house and pounded on the window. I stopped in mid-spin and my insides contracted. I hoped it was my friend Jan and her sister Marie. When I opened the side door, spider webs stretched out and tore along the frame and a moth flew in. The boy had come by to return my camera. He didn’t say if he saw me dancing.
When I’m writing, if anyone walks by and looks at what I’m doing, I get that same jerk and twist to my insides as if I’m doing something wrong. Or if not exactly wrong, not quite proper.
Where do you write? Do you have an office or a sofa? Do you need silence or noise? Do you want to see people walking by, cow chewing grass, or a blank wall?
How do you feel if someone peers over your shoulder? Do you try to hide what you’re doing or do you move so that they can get a better look?