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The rain is sporadic, but the stream peeling off the roof is constant. An insistent pouring onto something plastic, not the comforting spattering of drops. It jars with my yearning for a certain type of rainsong. While the room warms up, I sit in beanie and overcoat, coming to grips with my space.

The blue car in the old shed has not moved. Some days there is washing on the line. The Hills Hoist carousel has three pieces of baby clothing on it today, hanging, sopping, in the rain. One day there was a free-wheeling pink sheet, fresh and joyous. It sang like a flag.

My room is my own. Unadorned. The desk has piles of books, some propped open on pages. Significant letters: S for studio. Topographical maps for placement, location, anchoring in space. 

Turn the page. F for freelance. I have been paid for my writing. I am out there in the world, selling my words. Making a mark as a writer of sorts. Feeling allowed to own this identity, this voice. Inhabiting that place where I feel contentment, achievement and belonging. Breathe in. Slow down, and look around. 

Stop and breathe.

The possibilities of the alphabet. The tumbling stream of words. Gathered and yoked, pushed into shape.

In days of light sun, grey rain, blue skies, warm grass, old chair, spare rug I can exist here, alone behind my shut and locked door. From behind the door comes a voice. Hello? Is that me? Indeed it is.

Key to Studio 9, Glenfern


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