Where do I write? These days, nowhere. Not in my head, not on my keyboard, not in a creative nook, not in a fancy writing office with a cantankerous cat.
Life has gotten in the way. Not an excuse for some, but it is for me. And I’m okay with it. This is the first time I’ve touched the keyboard in months. How many, I don’t know. Lost count, to be exact. And so that’s where I am.
Not developing new story ideas. Not creating new characters. Not writing fast drafts.
Except is that really where I am?
I stop by my parents’ house. My gaze falls on a poem I wrote to them, years ago.
We still remember where we came from
The withered birches standing tall
The dachas with their secret gardens
That rolled from summer into fall.
As children we knew very little
Of all the hardships they endured
They did not want us bearing witness
To those same struggles, as we matured.
Around the many kitchen tables
They pondered when they would live free
And during many whispered evenings
They plotted, how and when they’d flee.
While soundly we slept like children
They chose whether to leave their lives
Because they knew that staying in Russia
Would only lead us to demise.
They quickly packed up our belongings
Then took us far away from home
So that we’d never know the struggles
They had had sadly always known.
It was not Fate that gave us choices
Nor was it Her that gave us life
It was our family’s act of courage
That gave us freedom without strife.
So where am I?
Living in freedom to write about being nowhere. That’s not nowhere. That’s somewhere special.