I do not want to be here. I want to be here. Driving through the tunnel I think “Where am I going?” I can do this at home, facing the plum tree, the apple that is just beginning to tempt me with its first buds. I have rooms galore—rooms filled with views of endless possibilities—what a wonderful place to write but this is not where the writing comes.
I could meet my friend at the library, just like we did for years, all those years ago,scratching it out on the floor in a small cubby corner, like a couple of kids avoiding detention, hoping to get caught.
I’ve been there done that, holed up in my office, door closed, trying to decide which of my characters would live and which of them would die, or maybe just kill the whole lot of them off right then and there. The waste basket at my feet beckoning, I can hear it snickering so my fingers just tap harder and faster, as though we were in some kind of race against discovery.
Once the car makes that first soft turn, the road bending its way up tree-lined twists, road signs pointed toward no place I recognize, I almost take my hands off the steering wheel, almost close my eyes and let the car float me past road blocks and garbage trucks and school buses stopped then started up again.
I’m sure I missed the turn, which turn was it, back where the road splits, was it left or right? But no, I never miss, I always manage to land here, the I of me having disappeared into sweet submission somewhere back along that winding path, now delivered, safe and whole, into a place called writing.
It is a place I know, and do not know.
A place I do not always want to know.
A place that insists on knowing me.