Perhaps, dear reader, you regularly check in with my blog. If you do, I humbly thank you for occasionally scanning my meandering. Some of you have inquired as to my terminology… writer’s perch … referred to as such only through my dumb luck. It is merely an outside deck off the west end of the house at Tuckaway Farm.

Its elevation affords a view that eases a writer into a proper frame of mind, a gentle persuasion that coaxes a creative mood.

I won’t exaggerate . It’s not a door that opens to a massive expanse of farmland or a valley that descends to distant depths. Most of the farmland that the writer can see belongs to the writer. It is lush and green. It is a set stage. Its aura begets words. They need only be plucked by the author, as from a tree.

Often in the morning, a few miles distant from the Writer’s Perch, a band of visible evaporation rises from the Delaware River. Beyond this, straining eyes take leave of what become the vagaries of Bucks County, Pennsylvania.

But, hark ! I write this morning from what I’ll call Writer’s Perch South, our eighth floor condo’s lanai overlooking the ceaseless whispers of the Gulf of Mexico here in Naples, Florida. I will posit thusly: If a writer can’t write here, he perhaps never will.

The waves are gentle, not the boisterous clapping of their ocean brethren. They are subtle, making only humble gesture to who ever would behold. These waters, though a vast expanse, slide ashore with a soft approach. These waves are a delicate, rarified whisper of the world.


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