Where I Write

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 It seems to me that when you write most days, that a change in scenery might give colour to the isolation one might experience when writing. Yes, it can be a solitary affair, so intent the focus, so lost in character, in place. Time distorts by virtue of attention. A good place to start when explaining my writing routine.

I have spent the summer, when good weather permitted, writing on the shores of the Salish Sea. Grab a cup of coffee to-go, and pull up a log. Simple as that. I sit for a moment, look out to the boats, ships, ferries, that come and go. And then, I like to consider, or wonder, where the log that I am sitting on, was standing, 20 years ago, 50, 100. What was going on in the world? A brief interlude to acknowledge my surroundings, the beauty, the gratitude I feel to be able to do what I love.

I open my notebook to where I left off the last time I was there. A fountain pen. Black ink. I am ready to write, cursive, just like we all did at one time. I love to write with my fountain pen. It has its drawbacks, when I copy my writing onto my laptop the next day at a coffee shop. I'll explain later. Countless minutes deciphering my urgent hand as it tried to keep pace with a scene, the dictation from my creative mind. It comes out rapidly, and remarkably, wonderfully fluid, and coherent. Yes, there is always editing.

And then a scene is completed, and I look up, take in the breadth of the sea. The gulls, cormorants, and sealions that often pass in front of me. Bald Eagles, too, and just the air. I sit a moment, my attention calm but attentive. I can think of no other pastime that I would rather have. It is not a job. There is no deadline to meet. Just the pleasure of expression, my view of life, the world, and what it means to be a writer, to create. 



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