Writing is like designing houses in people’s minds.
They walk around your corridors, down the stairs you lead them, into the cellar where the floor is dark and wet. They climb up and explore the attic that you weren’t even aware of in the plans. They sit in your kitchen and make tea and sleep in the beds you lay out for them. You design the windows through which they see the world and the doors through which they welcome or turn away others. They are lost in your house and even you cannot find them sometimes.
You leave houses in people’s minds, empty, dark houses with lights that switch on when they wander through.
They walk around your corridors, down the stairs you lead them, into the cellar where the floor is dark and wet. They climb up and explore the attic that you weren’t even aware of in the plans. They sit in your kitchen and make tea and sleep in the beds you lay out for them. You design the windows through which they see the world and the doors through which they welcome or turn away others. They are lost in your house and even you cannot find them sometimes.
You leave houses in people’s minds, empty, dark houses with lights that switch on when they wander through.
