From the Editor

All my major works have been written in prison … I would recommend prison not only to aspiring writers but to aspiring politicians, too.

Finding a place to write has always been a difficult task. Should it be inside or outside? And where is the place of most calm? I need calm, possibly some music but definitely no people, a place where the regular activities of life are suspended for long enough that a space opens for a hand to raise a pen to paper. We write in the openings of space and time.

The list of possible available houses and cottages lay on my desk for some days, and finally weeks — the longer it stayed there the further it retreated, until what had initially seemed like a possible respite loomed as an insurmountable task. When the piece of paper resurfaced a week or so later, it seemed less ominous and the necessary phone calls were undertaken and a place was found. The house was at the edge of a forest, satisfying both a need for quiet as well a place where nature prevails over the incursions of domesticated life.

On the morning of the day after my arrival, I wake up alone, summoned to the daylight by my own body; nothing else demands anything of me. There are very few steps from the world of sleep to the outside world. With the morning tea made, I pick up the bag of books and paper and venture toward the back deck. As I open the sliding glass door I am greeted with a wave of cold air, surprising for this time of year. I sit down with my books, pen and paper, and the ever-present cup of tea, a necessity for any conversation to begin. I cannot write directly to a keyboard — there is something about the pen and paper that forges the words, embeds them into print, no longer erasable or deletable. These words have to be reckoned with today and tomorrow, and while they can be easily tossed away, they can never disappear and their presence has to be contended with. As I locate a somewhat uncomfortable deck chair, I remember reading somewhere that E