“Write what you know.” What if you know that you are in exile – in what once was local?

You are where you need to be to write. You don't need to sign up for an expensive writing weekend. You don't need to travel a thousand miles to find your stories.

We writers tend to rely on our visual experiences. This writing prompt asks you to use your hearing.

You’re not the only writer who has given up, is giving up or will give up on your writing.

I once sat on a weatherbeaten wooden dock jutting out into a North country pond.

I sit across from my long-time friend in a hypothetically Mexican restaurant in a pit-stop off I-40.

We have what we are given until it is gone.

Nothing ever goes away until it teaches us what we need to know. — Pema Chodron

Perhaps you hear yourself. You talk with a friend.

I had returned from visiting a friend roughly 30 miles north of the US human-designated Arizona “Border”.

All her hoarding had depleted her. So it went, with safety, the more you guarded, the less you had. —Richard Powers, The Echomaker

What is missing? What space do you need to fill so you can write?

The mirror isn’t enchanted; the artifacts don’t come with power beyond what they’re given.

I most often write about the deeper blocks and releases of writing.

The secrets of the mysterious world are being stolen. The mysterious secrets of the world are pimped out – for “likes”, for ephemeral notoriety, for profit.

We, no matter where you or I live, are “local writers”. Our pens give each other ink.

He remembered when they’d had the plumber install the sink.

She dropped her keys on the corpse. They would be proof . . . of what? Perhaps you know.

The kitchen is two rooms away from the front door.

You aren’t sure of what you are seeing. There is fog.