The only private place in the tiny, crowded house of my growing-up years was a stuffy, dusty-smelling attic space under the eaves that I shared with Christmas decorations and baby furniture awaiting the arrival of brother number three.  I crawled into that hideout with a flashlight and pillow whenever I wanted to read or write, careful not to look behind the overstuffed boxes piled high in the dark.  Now, over sixty years later, that inner dream of becoming a writer is still alive. My home office space is a cocoon, just as the crawlspace under the eaves was a refuge to that young girl. The light from the office window to my right is filtered through colored glass bottles collected over time. I listen to classical music. An abstract art piece - a modern depiction of the Eiffel Tower - adorns the wall above my bookcase. Creativity seeps into this space if I welcome it with kindness. In the words of James Michener -“I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.”