A sunny winter day on the very edge of Europe. Coffee on the table in a cup from Barcelona, I am waiting for the lesson, to which a teacher is pretty late. I want to look in the window and reflect (the view is beautiful – mountains and forest – almost not spoiled by buildings). I put on the soundtrack with the name “morning jazz” and plunge into the atmosphere of a Sunday morning.
I want to imagine myself in Paris or New York in a loft on the 10th floor with an open terrace and with you bringing freshly baked pancakes. Jazz is also playing here, soft, but lively, diluting the morning silence of the apartment. Around, wherever you can imagine: on the floor, on the bed, bedside tables, on the armchair near the window and even at the terrace are scattered sheets of paper. It’s all another burst of my inspiration, as always at the wrong time, but desirable. I had to catch this moment and take everything it had brought. It turned out that a lot. 15-20 pages in an inconceivable disorder dispersed throughout the apartment. Neither beginning nor end – just solid text that is yet to be put together, refined the details, corrected, read and checked several times and only then released into the world and presented to readers.
Poor you, many times you will have to face this crazy scene. But it seems that it amuses you, and your grumbling is only to maintain the status, and yet you put a tray on the only clean place in the room between the window and armchair and start to collect my work, trying to put the sheets in order, while me, quite sleepy, I’m thinking to go to the bathroom to wash my face, but instead come up to you, hug and say “thank you.” You smile and answer that it’s your own fault, having chosen the life with a writer, but secretly rejoice because you are happy, and this is the most important thing.