Writer’s Abandoned House — not Writer’s Block.

You’re wearing boots, and the laces are tied the way someone who cared about you taught you to do so. You remember to double knot, so they don’t cascade and get caught in soil. There’s a path that you once always walked along, and you’re still walking alongside it — until you reach an archway of an abandoned house. Before we press on: Don’t worry about taking off your shoes. It doesn’t feel safe to be barefoot for now. There are rocks and soil instead of polished hardwood. You tread carefully.

The doorway has vines snaking across its remaining skeleton, a simple arch, no door. But you still feel as if it’s impolite to skip knocking on something. There is no door. The vines make their nest amongst the rusting appliances. In a corner, a (barely recognisable) pot. There is a pen balanced on the rim. A tawny owl blinks at you as if to say, About time. This place, this room, once housed the words you kneaded into dough before you snuffed the fire out, took your cloak and left ‘for a walk’.

Writers are the best at abandoning their homes. Writing is best when a home is abandoned momentarily. This year, I stretch my arms out once more and try to create things that I got better at consuming the past few years. English Majors (current or graduated) pick apart things with knife and fork, critiquing as if it matters whether the stew is warm or lukewarm. I have become a picky-eater of words, which is what leads me to abandon my own sometimes. I realise the notion for why I stopped writing for a while is stupidly…