Walden

Thoreau. Nietzsche. Hemingway. Writing, as an act, is a retreat; a folding inward. No surprise, then, that this isolating state of concentration often mirrors a chosen state of physical isolation. Writers tend to seek seclusion. The room with a view. Preferably a distant one. Something to rest your eyes on while drifting off in thought, without pulling focus. A forest, a mountain, a coast, a city skyline. We look, but with divided attention – through the eye, awareness moves from within to without. The view supports the writing, and the writing teaches us to look slowly at the view. The two need each other.

Lacking a forest or mountain, we use a garden. And something interesting happens at the far end of it. The garden not only touches the street beyond but curves and slips behind the corner. This spot offers just the right sense of shelter, so here we build the writer’s cabin. A cabin needs a roof. Asymmetrical and sloped. A distorted archetype, shaped partly by its pragmatic connection to the neighbour. It also needs windows, for views. One large window looks out over a patch of garden, avoiding the house (and vice versa). A close view, quietly natural. Another window peers toward the street. The houses on the other side are tall and distant. The view filters through. The window for the close view is large, to counter its nearness. The one for the distant view is small, to draw it closer. The cabin has walls and a floor. But the walls are also cupboards, places to store things already written. The gaze inward, the gaze outward.