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Why does it feel like the walls are closing in?

Is it wrong for a writers to want their own spaces? Does it make us wrong to want a small nook in the house that we can call our own? A place where we can work our craft in an environment that fuels our creativity? These are some of the questions I am sitting here asking myself, locked in my bedroom, hoping – for five minutes at least—that the world is held back behind the wooden barrier.

I feel selfish sometimes. Seems like everyone needs my attention for one reason or another. And the more they want my attention, the more I want to be left alone to write. I can be accommodating, but I do have my limits. I can only turn up the volume in my headset so loud before the sound of the music drowns out my thoughts. When that happens, I can only resign from my duties for the night and try again the next day.

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