Home
Written in Stone
In July of 2001 I spent a month at the Vermont Studio Center for Writers and Artists. I spent that month living in a bedroom of a three bedroom house that I shared with two writers. Next to my bed was a cut into the wall that looked out onto a grove of native pine trees. Across from my single sized bed was a desk for my laptop and small printer. If I wanted to send an email or do research I had to walk or drive up a hill to the Public Library. I had a won a nice scholarship based on my writing and didn't truly appreciate the meaning that would have in my life until I met the other writers in the program. They were younger by far and graduates of creative writing programs. All of them were working on their first novel. In awe and a bit of confusion, I asked the group at our first seminar, Were you all born this way, knowing you would write novels. We were all given a chance to read one of the two pieces we had submitted to program director. After I read my short story entitled Ruby some of the young writers came up to me afterwards to ask how I leaned to write. It was their turn to be in awe.
The reason I include this story about home is that summer of travel and being away from my home in Texas and my children who had scattered after leaving our home, this was my first time of being away from all of the places and people I associated with home. The summer of 2001 was when I discovered that home was not a place but inside of me.
The reason I include this story about home is that summer of travel and being away from my home in Texas and my children who had scattered after leaving our home, this was my first time of being away from all of the places and people I associated with home. The summer of 2001 was when I discovered that home was not a place but inside of me.