This morning a friend took me to see an abandoned house she'd discovered. As a lover of stories, she knew the richness saturating the floorboards like the manure from the cows who had also taken up exploration.
The tiny farm house was quaint, with a lovely staircase, perfect windows for letting in light throughout the entire day, and a place like a crown on top of a hill. The fragile frame was bursting at the seams with all its untold stories: the forlorn shoe, the high class gold wall paper, the still wrapped Christmas presents, etc.
We left it all undisturbed, taking only pictures and imagining the laughter and tears that could've been shared in each room. It would be a great exercise to find a place like that and just begin writing, exploring the possibilities, and seeing what comes.