I don't like to drive so I was surprised to find, sometime in my 30s, that I enjoy writing there; I park with a view of water or crooked trees, keep a backpack in the passenger seat with my favorite notebooks and pens. In winter, I bring a sleeping bag, sometimes even a pillow so I can dream.
In my car, I don't worry about what I haven't done; I don't think about unpaid bills or unwashed dishes; I don't accidentally answer the phone or find that a neighbor has stopped by to discuss a mountain lion; I don't discover that the washing machine is oozing a mysterious swamp water.
When I was in college I wrote in my dorm room, on my bed, which became an island of thought. Or I went to the library and sat in a big chair with stacks of books around me. I preferred a window, if I could find one, where I might watch the light shift and gather.
In my early 20s, I had a writing fellowship on Cape Cod and I wrote in my cottage like the other poets: tea on the stove, a cat in my lap. Afterwards, I taught high school English and, for a few years, I wrote in the teacher's lounge, near the Xerox machine, which sounded like a mechanical ocean.
When my daughter was a baby, I wrote at home; while she slept, I ran my pen over a new idea. Afternoons, her toys on the floor, l composed drafts with an old typewriter on which all words became a noise. Then, she went to school for a few hours a day, and I tried working in a nearby cafe where I could not seem to have a clear thought; the music was busy with lyrics; people were trying out their new cell phones and I listened to them planning baby showers or gossiping about a neighbor's weight gain. After a terrible hour, my notebook full of nothing, I wandered to my car where I found, with relief, that I could write.
I remember the misery of learning to drive; I was worried by the idea that two lanes of traffic were sometimes separated by a vague line on a winding road; I was terrified of bridges and not quick enough on interstates; my blinker went on blinking long after I made a turn.
Now, I'm glad I learned how to do it. Driving and writing have taken me places I didn't know I wanted to find; I balance my notebook against the steering wheel, and the lines inside are tiny highways.
Faith Shearin is the author of four books of poetry: The Owl Question (May Swenson Award), The Empty House (Word Press), Moving the Piano, and Telling the Bees (SFA University Press). Recent work has appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review and Poetry East and has been read aloud by Garrison Keillor on "The Writer's Almanac". She is the recipient of awards from The Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, The Barbara Deming Memorial Fund, and the National Endowment for the Arts. Her work also appears in The Autumn House Anthology of Contemporary Poets and in Good Poems, American Places. She lives with her husband, her daughter, and a small, opinionated dachshund, in a cabin on top of a mountain in West Virginia. Faith has been in several issues of the North American Review, her poem "Snowy Owl" is featured in issue 300.1, Winter 2015.
Illustrations by Raquel Aparicio: I feel grateful this is going to be my ninth year dedicated to what I love, drawing. I live in Valencia, a sunny city in the coast of Spain. I taught a collage illustration workshop at the Circulo de Bellas Artes in Madrid; I also taught in diverse countries like Serbia or Paraguay. I work in a variety of media exploring different styles, producing illustrations, animations and comics. Mostly I work for magazines and illustrate children’s books, but I’v been also designing graphics for garments, advertising, and newspapers.
My illustrations were published in The New York Times, The New York Times Magazine, Boston Globe, New York Observer, The Scientist, Nylon, Dazed and Confused (Corea), Runner’s World, Prevention, Rolling Stone (Spain), Mia, Elle, Quo, Angel’s on Earth, Ragazza, Stella (UK), Psychologies, LDS Living, Ling, Yo Dona, Calle 20, H, Chow, Lados, Viajar, Looc, Europa, Forma (Paraguay), Simon & Schuster (US). Raquel is represented by Purple Rain Illustrations, Ella Lupo, T: 609-497-7330 C: 732-690-2515 ella@purplerainillustrators.com