Despite the murmurings and mumblings I hear about academics being out of touch, I feel there is something to be said for the ivory tower. When one wants to write, and do nothing but write, one wants privacy and quiet to think in. There ought to be a gentle undulation between solitude and human contact. There ought to be a few moments out of every day for a writer to stare out a window, picking out birdsong with her ears; or in the city, giving in to the mesmerizing patter of rain. There ought to be a minimum, deal-with-able amount of acrimony here and there. There ought to be sanity, because Lord knows a writer can create enough insanity for herself on the page.

Sigh. I feel there is something to be said for the ivory tower. Except that I'd probably prefer a cottage deep in the woods, with a spring, and a garden -- something less phallic and confining. That's nice; that's better. Let's indulge this little fantasy for a while. Let it be difficult for visitors to beat a path to my door. But let them do it every now and then, and we'll have cheese and bread and wine by my fire. Let there be sides of meat and strings of garlic and onions hanging in my shed; let there be a cat tucked quietly on the windowsill; let there be ivy over my front door and white curtains at the windows, and let there be the sun ever so distantly spangling through the thick leaves of forest trees. Ahhhhhh.

It beats the heck out of Innisfree, I'm telling you.