This is really messed up. Or maybe it’s another book coming on. Here we go: In a mythical house where all the rooms are based on how you spend your time in life, I’d have multiple writing rooms—for the different genres, of course. My blog room would be small, with oversized furniture. My poetry room would have no furniture, just a floor I could lie on to get outside my usual perspective. My fiction room would have a desk and a giant window, one with changing views. photo

I’d have a travel room (with my own teleportation device), a childhood memory room filled with sunlight and ideas and green carpet, and a room in deep space where I could look out at the stars all around me and feel how big it all is. Books are everywhere, even in the poetry room where they’re stacked on the floor. Paper, too—lots of paper and ink.

Of all these rooms, some populated, some not, the room I don’t have is a comfort zone. I had that room years ago. I spent time in it and I liked it. I let it envelope me and keep me safe. It was hard to leave. But I also felt it become stagnant and overbearing. Once I labeled it that way, I was able to leave it.

I think over time that room just fell away. It’s not there anymore. And I couldn’t call it back if I wanted to. Instead, these other rooms have everything I need. Everything.

I tell you: The lack of that room seems to have made a very big, and very good, difference.

I wrote a book called Upside Down Kingdom.