I’m constantly awed by the number of chimneys peaking over the stone walls in our small wynd, until I remember this is Scotland. And I wonder what is up there. Does someone live way up where winds surely must be louder? Is it cozy or cold under the gabled roofs?

I have always fancied living in a garret. My desk would be pushed into the dormer and a small lamp would glow over my reams of manuscript (those are imagined, too).

Perhaps I can blame this affinity on my Little Women years of longing to be Jo, scratching away at plays by candlelight in her New England garret. The smell of old wooden floors and the darkness around the glow of a single lamp seems to be a perfect writer’s nook, where imagination is confined into coherence.

My homage, ladies and gentlemen, to the garrets and attics and chimneys around our home:

Grab a book, climb some stairs, go find a cozy place to read.