Driving through the tunnel in the heavy traffic in the rain I think Why am I doing this? I don’t need to be in a group with other people, 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 at home to write in—rooms filled with views of endless possibilities—I live in a writer’s retreat for God’s sake and can write any time any where I want. Except I don’t.
Or I could meet a writing partner, meet at the library like we did all those years ago, scratching out our stories on the floor in a small cubby corner, like a couple of kids avoiding detention, hoping to get caught. Or in a cafe sipping lattes in the late afternoon, distracted by the sounds of milk foaming machines and other would-be writers twisting around on their stools, awaiting inspiration.
But once the car makes that first soft turn, the road bending its way up tree-lined twists, road signs pointing every which way, hairpin turns and occasional delivery trucks making it all put impossible to move forward, but still I do, and almost take my hands off the steering wheel, almost close my eyes and let the car float me all the way to where the writing begins.