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

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Published by georgi.kisyov

15 thoughts on “Where I Go When I Write”

    1. Ceci, that sounds absolutely magical! Sitting on a porch, wrapped in warm blankets, listening to the loons calling across the water… I think you’ve just added another beautiful detail to my imaginary cottage! And you’re so right—what would writing be without imagination? Sometimes a place doesn’t have to belong to us to become part of our most precious memories. Thank you for sharing yours, my friend!
      GK

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    1. Then we have something in common. There’s something so peaceful about being near water, isn’t there? Whether it’s a lake, a river, or the ocean, just imagining the gentle sounds can bring inspiration. Maybe our imaginary writing places aren’t so far apart after all!
      GK

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

    “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.”

    I write wherever I can do it, often getting jostled or getting one word or sentence at a time. this sounds like a lovely way to think of it regardless of the actual location.
    This paints such a picture! How beautiful a place to be to write.

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    1. Thank you so much, Rosie, my dear friend! I love what you said about writing wherever you can, even if it’s just one word or one sentence at a time. Perhaps that’s the wonderful thing about imagination. No matter how busy or noisy the world around us is, we can always find our own little peaceful corner. And you know there’s always a chair waiting for you in my gazebo!
      By the way, Rosie, did you happen to see the post I dedicated to you on Saturday, celebrating the first anniversary of R Meadow Highlights? I wanted to make sure you didn’t miss it, my friend!
      GK

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  6. There is something wonderfully nostalgic about this, Georgi. I think most of us have a place tucked away somewhere inside us where the world grows quieter and we can hear our own thoughts again. Sometimes it is a place we have actually known, and sometimes, like your cottage, it is stitched together from things we have loved—the sound of leaves, a certain slant of afternoon light, a warm cup of tea, the hush that comes when the day is winding down. I have always loved autumn too. There is something about it that feels like remembering, even when I am not quite sure what I am remembering. Perhaps that is why your cottage feels strangely familiar, although I have never been there. I especially loved your thought that imagination is not necessarily an escape from reality, but a place where we can “breathe differently.” As someone who has always found it easier to put my heart on paper than to say everything aloud, I understand going somewhere inward to find the words and then bringing them back with you. And I have to say, you had me completely at the gazebo, the lake, the autumn leaves, and the hot tea. I think I have already claimed that other chair.

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    1. Oh, my friend, I love what you said about autumn feeling like remembering, even when we don’t quite know what we’re remembering. That’s such a beautiful way to describe it! And perhaps that’s why my imaginary cottage feels so familiar to you. We’ve never been there, yet somehow we both know the sounds, the colors, and the feeling of being there. I also love your thought about finding it easier to put your heart on paper. Sometimes writing allows us to say things we could never quite express aloud. And don’t worry, that other chair is officially yours! I have a feeling we’d spend hours drinking tea, talking about writing, and occasionally forgetting to write anything at all!
      GK

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  7. When I was a teenager, a friend invited a few of us to their cabin. Your cabin instantly transported me there. The lake was so crisp clear blue. There were a couple of loons at the far end. I remember as if it were but yesterday, their lonesome calls reverberating across the water in clear warning…you’ve invaded our space (it was a large lake) and we could barely see them, hidden at lakes edge in underbrush, but their spoken warning was obvious enough. Get away. Lol. We stayed a few days and it was memorable. Certainly not as memorable as your beautiful cabin. I wished I could say that I had a beautiful spot to retreat to when I write. Im truly happy you have that. I humbly thank you for the invitation you so warmly offered to all your readers and writers. Perhaps one day I’ll have the privilege of joining you there in that extra chair coffee in hand(smirk smirk) and we’ll converse over writing. What a treat that would be. Thank you for taking us there, the vision is clear beautiful warm and welcoming. Autumn is a remarkable time of year with untold colors infusing our souls. Please, continue to enjoy the peace and solitude offered there. It suits you. It delivers the right climate colour and more we see in your writing in abundance. 😊

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    1. Oh, my friend, what a wonderful memory you’ve shared! I could almost hear those loons calling across the lake, making sure you knew whose home you were visiting! And please, don’t think your cabin was any less memorable than my imaginary one. Yours gave you real memories that have stayed with you since your teenage years. That’s something special. As for that extra chair, consider it officially reserved! Bring your coffee, I’ll make my tea, and we’ll spend as much time talking about writing as we do admiring the lake. Who knows, perhaps one day we’ll actually do it! Thank you for your beautiful words and for bringing a little piece of your own memories into my cottage.
      GK

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