Outside, when windy. Everything gives up and blows away.
A big desk, for people with job-jobs. Leave your work scattered, like you must return soon.
Frozen nights, paper lit by fire.
Alone, with only ghosts watching you.
In public, naked.
At a coffee shop, a hot chocolate on your face and on your paper, a good song in your ear.
Under a table, writing about people’s shoes and deepest secrets.
Wherever you please, at certain key hours.
Whenever you please, on your favourite chair.
In Mondays and on December.
From your head, the tip of your pen, the nubs of your fingers, the first of your thoughts.
The cabin in the woods or the train in Europe or the garret in Paris or the classroom in college.
In your heart or your lover’s heart or your mother’s heart.
Inside of your head but never on paper.
In a Moleskine notebook your ex-boyfriend bought you at graduation but you never opened because you stopped talking and was he judging you, by buying you only a notebook when he should have really bought you a necklace, something beautiful, something lasting?
Inside a memory, a hard drive.
it’s less about
where you write,
and more about where you leave it
once you do it.