I would like to begin with a bold statement like “The WORLD is my studio!”, or “I write wherever and whenever The Muse finds me”; I would like to say that The Muse finds me scribbling frantically in a Moleskine at a café on the Left Bank in Paris, or atop the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, but in reality she just stands there tapping her toe and glancing at her watch while I mop spilled coffee from the keyboard on my little desk in my little Toronto apartment.
I would like to tell you that my studio is an oasis of creativity, lined with frayed notebooks of my collected ideas, a library of books that inspire me or keep me humble, nothing that I don’t find either beautiful or useful. And this would be at least partially true—it’s just the first thing you’d notice upon entering is a bulky old treadmill I inherited from my parents.
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