Sad days ahead: I have to leave my writing room in a week.
The room is located in Asker, a short stroll from where I live. From the early November days of last year, I have spent hours and hours in this room on the second floor of a charming white wooden house. It used to be a farm house, a kindergarden, now a cultural center (Englagaard) with a gallery, working-rooms for artists, writers, musicians, and the like.
Here is what I like about it: The early mornings when kids walk past the house on their way to school, and the quietness that follows. The atmosphere. The oldness. The faint smell of paint in the room (it used to be a studio), the narrow stairway, and the almost shocking greenness in the garden. Few interuptions, but people to talk to if bored of writing. The generosity of all the other people there. The old window posts, the space.
Still, it's time to move on, the manuscript is almost there. But I hope for a reunion. Soon.