Writing about a changing place

This post below appeared on the Brevity Blog on April 14, 2025 and was part of my March 2025 e-newsletter. Subscribe to my newsletter to receive monthly writing tips and first dibs on workshops.

During interviews about my new essay collection, Shelter and Storm, I’ve been asked what surprised me about living in rural Wisconsin. One surprise was how strange and fascinating nature is up-close, day-to-day. I saw the most extraordinary things—raccoons swinging like monkeys through the treetops, a snake in a square knot on a path in the woods. Another surprise was how volatile weather dictated our activities, and how storms dismantled, in an instant, the structures we’d built.

At the heart of these answers lie the contrasts of wonder and threat. Such contrasts are present in all our experiences of a landscape. Others might include, for example, order and chaos, solitude and community, or cacophony and harmony. Mining these contrasts is one way to realize the richness of place in our writing.

Used with intention, place acts as more than a backdrop, more than a reflection of mood, character, or action. It’s atmosphere and grounding, without which nothing can be conceived or accomplished. Features of the landscapes that helped shape us are woven through the stories of who we are.

What’s more, place is ever-changing, physically and conceptually. Marking its transformations—in addition to its contrasts, as described above—can bring tension and momentum to our writing. Examining how it has changed can illuminate how we’ve changed.

An excellent example appears in Ada Limon’s poem, “Salvage.” She opens describing a half-burnt tree:

On the top of Mount Pisgah, on the western
slope of the Mayacamas, there’s a madrone
tree that’s half-burned from the fires, half-alive
from nature’s need to propagate. One side
of her is black ash and at her root is what
looks like a cavity that was hollowed out
by flame.

Then Limon shows another view:

On the other side, silvery green
broadleaf shoots ascend toward the winter
light and her bark is a cross between a bay
horse and a chestnut horse, red and velvety
like the animal’s neck she resembles.

Finally, Limon brings in her own perspective, and the change within herself from this encounter:

I have
been staring at the tree for a long time now.
I am reminded of the righteousness I had
before the scorch of time. I miss who I was.
I miss who we all were, before we were this: half
alive to the brightening sky, half dead already.
I place my hand on the unscarred bark that is cool
and unsullied, and because I cannot apologize
to the tree, to my own self I say, I am sorry.
I am sorry I have been so reckless with your life.

We can bring great meaning to our writing by exploring the personal consequences of a changing place. Consider these prompts:

• Picture a landscape that was once meaningful or magical to you. What features stand out? What did you do and feel in that place?
• Call to mind your beloved landscape as it is now. How have its features changed? How have those changes affected what you tell others about that place?
• Consider the repercussions of your landscape’s changes. What questions linger, unresolved? What haunts you? What have you lost?
• Finally, reflect on what the landscape has given you. What aspects of the place live on in you? If responding to these prompts brought up grief, acknowledge that grief and be assured that you’re not alone in feeling it. Imagine what you might offer in gratitude to the landscape and its inhabitants.

Writing in response to these prompts can lead you to the heart of how environment acts on us, individually and collectively. It might seduce us, inspire us, connect us, or divide us. What is it doing in your writing?