And it goes like this:

In a remote (but close to home) cabin, I spend seven days in solitude. The only other human being I see during this time is my host, Jack. Otherwise, my only company is the sound of the autumn breeze rustling tree leaves.

The cabin need not be luxurious. Simple accommodations of a bed, a table and chair, a lamp, and a single bathroom are the only modern conveniences I need. The most important requirements are peace and a view of the surrounding woods.

Each morning Jack would bring me breakfast: eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, toast, and coffee. After I finish my repast, I’d sit at my table and write. And write. And write. Breaking only occasionally to open the door of my cabin and inhale the delicate scent of mountain air.

Jack would arrive again shortly after noon with my lunch on a tray. Probably a ham sandwich, potato chips, and iced tea. Again, he’d leave, and I’d be granted more peace to write. And write. And write.

Jack would join me for dinner (meatloaf and mashed potatoes), and we’d discuss my day’s work. I’d talk about plot and pacing and characterization, and he’d have some clever insight into the development of the story. After he left, I’d relax with a good book, content in the knowledge that tomorrow would be another day of hand-delivered meals, writing time, and quiet.

It’s a dream. A nice dream. It’s a place in my head that becomes my retreat from Dora The Explorer, toys with flashing lights and musical tunes, and the sound of wooden spoons as they bang against metal mixing bowls.