A writers’ cabin in the woods

I’m somewhere in Cornwall, looking out onto the woods, sitting at a desk with simplicity around me. A hotplate, dorm-size fridge, single bed, toilet, shelf, and plenty of outlets. I’ve been here since yesterday, late afternoon. Just me, the sounds of the birds, and something, not a woodpecker, knocking on something else at dawn. I’m writing a book about journal writing. I have all of the information in my laptop, I just needed a few days to compile it, create a few passages that fill the book out, add some further reading suggestions, and now have about 18,000 words written, either my words, or those from all the other journal writers around the world who graciously sent me their submissions.

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It’s not too late to get in what will be (because I’m a positive person), a wonderful encouragement to those who have never considered journaling for their own growth and healing, and peace of mind. That’s what it ultimately provides…better than a gallon of ice cream, or a pack of cigarettes (though as a former smoker, I can’t pooh-pooh the entire smoking experience), or overdoing it at the liquor cabinet.

If you’re reading this and have something to add, like your own journaling experience (and YES, I’m looking at you!) send it to me quick. I will get out to you a permission slip because that’s what I was told to do at a writer’s workshop. And I can only promise you a copy of the book when it’s done.

I do have to mention one thing. It’s very quiet here, blessingly quiet. For other’s this would be a nightmare, for me, it’s bliss. I know I’m in the right place because inside this remarkably well-equipped cabin is a book shelf. On top of the book shelf is a plain book. It almost looked designed like a classic from years ago, but it had no title, no author. I picked it up finally last night as I took a break from writing. And I got a chill down my back. It was a journal. From 1984. Of all those who wanted to put their stamp on their stay here in the isolated cabin in the woods. I doubt any of them were writers, per se, but they put a bit of their soul in these pages. Who came to find peace, who came as a regular break from their busy life in the city, who came to remember a loved one, who booked their stay on Labor Day of 2001, and arrived on 9/24. She wrote about her experiences being in the city, working on a high floor, being evacuated and the aftermath of that terrible day. I saw that the book was dedicated to a woman named Jane. I lost my mom, Jane, in 2011, and dreamed of us together last night, she and I sitting on a couch, I couldn’t tell where we were, but I woke up feeling that we’d been really together. If you also know the Long Island Medium (I LOVE HER!), she would say, “that was your mom’s soul reaching out to you.”

Anyways, I have to stand up, stretch, heat up my cup of tea and get back to work. Again, if you have something to submit, give me a shout at mjwrites@optonline.net.


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