All I want for Christmas is time.
Alone time, without interruptions, so that I can write. Someone famously said that authors need a room of their own, but it isn't all about room.
It's the space I crave.
The space to be creative without family members assuming I'm not doing anything because I seem to be sitting quietly, and therefore they can barge in and ask me to lend a hand or join them for some shopping.
Can you give me enough space to show respect for my silly hobby? There's precious little of that respect in a writer's world, where rejection is an everyday occurrence. Please don't reject my writing at the source as well.
Give me time and space, a little solitude where my thoughts can be my own.
The socks are lovely, really, but what I want is not tangible. It cannot be put in a box under the tree.
Yet it is the most precious gift I could receive.