Why I Write

When I think of my place, I think of salt air and marshes. The New England coastline, Pine trees and jutting rocks, grey, brooding skies. I think of purple hydrangeas against faded wood, stone walls and bushels of apples. Here in Virginia, it's my study with my grandmother's desk. Passed on to my mother, it sat for years in one corner of our living room. Now, it sits in my study, shelves full of books and photographs. The afternoon sun slants through opened blinds, and my two cats sit curled in spots of light and warmth. I'm curled, too, on the couch, a pile of books next to me on the table, my computer open on the old desk. More often these days, I want to fill my space with words, with sentences and language and story. Last summer, I biked across Massachusetts, and as I climbed and pedaled through small towns, New England seemed a place of indescribably beauty. The road, the Cape Cod houses with their gardens, the vista of ocean and small white cottages there at the entrance to Provincetown, all of it called to me with an urgence and a necessity I hadn't known before. All of it cried tell your story. Write it all down.