Where I Go When I Write

Today is the first day of autumn.

I could write about the cooler mornings. I could talk about the leaves slowly changing color, the shorter days, or that familiar feeling in the air that tells us summer is stepping away.

But today, I want to take you somewhere else.

I want to show you where I go when I write.

It is not my desk. It is not a room in my home. In fact, you will not find this place on any map.

But I go there almost every day.

Somewhere in my imagination, there is a small cottage on the shore of a quiet lake, surrounded by the Canadian mountains.

And it is always autumn there.

The cottage isn’t big or fancy. It doesn’t need to be. It has warm wooden walls, large windows facing the lake, and a little gazebo outside.

In the morning, that is where you will find me.

The air is crisp enough to remind me that summer is gone, but not cold enough to chase me inside. A little mist may still be resting over the lake. The trees around me are dressed in red, orange, yellow, and everything in between.

I sit in the gazebo with a cup of hot tea beside me.

There is no music in the morning.

Nature provides enough.

Leaves move gently in the breeze. Birds have their own conversations somewhere in the trees. Water touches the shore. Occasionally, something breaks the silence, but somehow it never feels like an interruption.

And I write.

Sometimes I know exactly what I want to say. Sometimes I arrive with only one sentence. Sometimes even that sentence doesn’t know where it wants to go.

But that is all right.

There is no hurry at the cottage.

In the evening, I move inside.

The lake outside the window becomes dark, the cottage becomes warmer, and my favorite online smooth jazz radio begins to play quietly in the background.

That is my evening writing world.

Maybe this sounds like a dream.

Perhaps it is.

Maybe one day I will sit in a real cottage beside a real Canadian lake, look toward the mountains, open my laptop, and realize that something I imagined for years has finally become real.

Maybe I won’t.

Strangely, that doesn’t matter very much to me.

Because I already go there.

I started writing in autumn, and perhaps that is why writing and autumn became connected somewhere inside me.

Before I knew it, autumn became more than a season I loved. It became the season of my words.

The funny thing is that the calendar doesn’t seem to matter.

I can write in January, April, or the middle of July. Outside my real window, there may be snow, spring rain, or a hot summer afternoon.

But when I begin to write, somewhere inside me the leaves turn orange again.

I return to the lake.

I return to the gazebo.

I return to autumn.

There is only one time of year when autumn in me takes a little break.

Christmas.

Then my cottage changes.

Snow covers the gazebo and the path to the lake. Christmas lights glow around the windows. There is a tree inside the cottage, filling the room with that special warmth that belongs only to Christmas.

Even the music changes.

Smooth jazz becomes Christmas jazz.

For a few weeks, autumn quietly steps aside and lets Christmas have the cottage.

And when Christmas is over, autumn returns.

Perhaps this little imaginary place explains something about my writing that I have never really explained before.

When I sit down to write, I don’t feel as though I am simply putting words on a screen.

I go somewhere.

And now that you know where I go, there is something else you should know.

You are always welcome there.

Actually, many of you have already visited without knowing it.

Every time you open one of my stories or reflections, imagine yourself walking down that little path toward the lake.

Come to the gazebo.

There is another chair.

Bring coffee if you prefer. I’ll keep my tea.

You can read for a few minutes. You can dream. You can pause after a busy day. You can leave a few words and have a short conversation with me. Or you can simply sit quietly and listen to the leaves.

You don’t have to stay long.

My little cottage was never meant to hide me from the world.

It is simply where I go to find the words I want to bring back to it.

And perhaps that is what imagination sometimes gives us.

Not an escape from reality, but a small place within it where we can breathe differently.

So, welcome to autumn.

The real one begins today.

But somewhere beside a quiet lake in my imagination, surrounded by mountains and trees covered in beautiful colors, autumn has been waiting for us all along.

The tea is warm.

The other chair is yours.

Welcome to my cottage.

GK