Dallas, Georgia
Congratulations, Pam!
Pam’s Bio:
Pam Allison lives in a historic community near Atlanta, Georgia. A graduate from The University of Georgia and Radford University, she owned and operated a one-woman painting studio for several years until closing shop in 2007. Her first love has always been writing and in 2008 she completed the rough draft to her first novel. She also has articles, a poem, and illustrations published in magazines. Currently she divides her time between revising her manuscript, spending time with her family, attending classes at a nearby college, and blogging under her pen name at www.chrislondonfiction.wordpress.com. She is also a member of a local writing critique group, Writers of Like Mind.
A Place of My Own
I cup my mug and savor the smell of coffee in the early hours while the rest of the house sleeps. The mornings are mine, and so is this room which is now my writing office. It is small and the ceilings sloped, an attic transformed into a sanctuary. It is where I can hear myself think clearly and dare to dream. Cardinals and jays twitter as buttery light streams through the windows. The house is old, its walls full of conversations that creak stories of the past. At night the wind rattles at the seams, wishing to touch the warmth of the living. A massive camellia bush underlines the second story window. Like the house, the bush is old and rooted in its own history. Gentle green fingers scrape the siding and I smile; I like things to grow wild, to express themselves in whatever shape they want to be, to resist shears that would form them into another image. Blooms the color of lipstick sway in the November air, coloring an otherwise dull landscape.
When I claimed this space as my own, the announcement to my family was met with the merest of shrugs. For me however, it was a declaration and a promise to allow my creative heart to grow freely into its own form. Last year I closed my fine art studio. A painter by trade, it was the slow, agonizing death of a life I'd always known. The mourning process hummed along in the background of my thoughts and emotions, never pulling me from my daily tasks but leaving me wanting for new direction. For months I floundered, having conversations with myself as I asked the hard question: what now?
A business woman at heart, I made my lists. I asked the practical questions in order to find the elusive vision of a different direction. I drilled down to the essential core of my creativity, the part that yearns to be something new and fluid, like water coursing through an ever-changing landscape. One night the answer came, whispering in my mind as softly as a lady's gloved hand. The moment it arrived, I knew. I would transform from a painter into a writer. Writing has always been a passion, but one pushed aside and smothered by the paintbrush. Still it was there, coming out in journals and short stories written and shelved.
As an artist, I understand the need for a private, quiet space where inspiration can manifest itself into form. The attic room, unnoticed at first, drew me in. Like my dormant love of writing, it remained in the background until new eyes saw potential. Cold, cluttered, unpainted, untouched, it was a forgotten corner of a house that had otherwise been lovingly restored. It became my personal metaphor as the work began. I made it clear that this was my project; I didn't want others involved in the process because new beginnings are a sacred time for me and highly personal. Sometimes a woman has to walk alone to see it through.
Slowly the room transformed its sullen neglect into a vibrant space. The walls now envelop me in rich russets; the window seat overlooking the street overflows with Turkish pillows, silk beauties adorned in curries, tangerines, magentas, and tiny mirrors. Drapes swath their color around the seat, creating a space within a space where I can read, reflect and just be still. Across the room an antique writing desk holds my laptop, the workhorse station where thoughts are hashed out, one paragraph at a time.
The clock reads 7 a.m. A cardinal lands on a feeder across from the camellia and feeds his mate a kernel. How sweet is commitment. The coffee is still warm as I nestle into the chair, the computer humming as the morning waits for me to begin the revisions of my first novel. Next to the filing cabinet is my paint splattered and battle worn easel. It holds a favorite painting, a reminder of a past life. I have no regrets because life is about adaptability to inevitable changes. Like the camellia, the shape of my creativity will grow into what it needs to be. The attic room is now a sanctuary, a place of my own in which my journey unfolds, one day at a time.
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