I’m in the middle of a huge house renovation. And I mean huge… new exterior, new roof, new deck, new skylights. It’s amazingly and heartbreakingly expensive, but it’s gotta get done.

So that got me thinking about houses and homes and what makes a great big box with a bunch of divider walls into first a house, and then a home. How weird is it to have our own bedrooms, our own home offices–and this, of course, gets me thinking about my (many) fantasy clients and how ubiquitous houses and bedrooms are. How privacy matters, no matter what the society… or does it? What sort of shared values across the current-day earth are we transporting into our fiction? How about expectations of the way we live? Fancy fireplaces and columns holding up the roof over our front entry, what kind of flooring we have in our kitchens, our bathrooms, our bedrooms…

These are the things I think about when I’m not editing. (It’s a darn good argument for keeping me busy, no?)

…and then LA caught on fire. And LA burned. And people lost homes they’ve lived in for generations. Generations!

That took on a new resonance. There’s a mention in Legacy, Tales from the Sheep Farm Book Five, that people who live in the historically working class neighborhood of Woolslayer pass their homes down through the generations and the stuff that accumulates through the decades and lifetimes, stuff that needs to be cleared out, but… yeah. Knowing that people (maybe even you) actually do live this way gives me a new perspective in the face of such loss.

What is it that defines how we live? Is it our sports memorabilia? Our couches, our various tables and desks, our good china? Is it the neighborhood, the size of the house, the approval of our neighbors, the landscaping, the length of your lawn?

Or is it something that transcends a physical structure? Is our home the people we let into our lives, the people we can trust and turn to for good and bad? Is it a feeling of belonging and nothing more? Is “home” our values and the way we live our lives and approach each day? Is it the memories we build in a place?

There’s even a cliche that goes “Home is where the heart is” — but try telling that to the people in LA who have lost their homes — and a piece of their hearts along with it. That argues pretty convincingly for memories and human connection and the feeling of safety and belonging, but is that all it is? I mean… it gets back to the fact that a house is nothing more than a box with a bunch of interior dividers.

What about the community? The people in LA and the people in West North Carolina (Hey, I still see you, friends! I haven’t forgotten you) would argue that’s absolutely part of what defines home. It explains why they are going to rebuild, why they may do it even without the financial assistance of an insurance industry that’s unable to keep up with the destruction of the planet, either through funding or through policy. “This is our home,” they say, and they don’t mean only the house.

What is the essence that defines home?

There are no right answers or wrong answers. I’m sure a sociologist or anthropologist or even an archeologist has tackled some of this, and of course I’d love to chat with someone who has and get their perspectives.

Just something to think about in your own fiction.

And if you’re so inclined to donate, reminder that the story I wrote for the Western North Carolina anthology is still available to you for a donation. $10 for each volume and $50 for the omnibus. My story, “In Search of Culinary Excellence” is in the Contemporary Fiction and LGBTQ volumes, because it features everyone’s favorite executive assistant, Taylor Alexander. And Sima Shaikovsky. Don’t forget her.

Don’t forget the people of LA and WNC, either. Or the others… people who’ve lost their homes and are struggling to live without permanent and safe housing.

I’m always glad to contribute to a charity anthology, to an auction, to whatever… just reach out. I’m always glad to help.

In the meantime, if you’ve got thoughts about home and what that word means, I’d love to hear them.

So last week, I started writing something for the Three Word Wednesday prompt. It truly is one of my favorite prompt sites; the words challenge me and at the same time, they fit my fictional style. It’s a good match, me and Three Word Wednesday.

Last Thursday, as I usually do (and mentioned already), I started writing something. And then I ran out of time because I’d done a whole host of other things before making time for my writing (bad Susan!).

I’ve worked off and on on the piece since then, and I think I’ve reached its conclusion. It’s short, under six hundred words — and as I got to the end of the page, I realized that it’s not something I can use on the blog. I definitely can’t use it as a short story, either in an anthology or a literary magazine, and definitely not as a standalone.

It’s a bridge piece, one of those things you blurp out as you figure out the story that needs to be told. One of those pieces that’ll never see the light of day but becomes a scene so vital to the whole that it’s not wasted words at all.

Sometimes, as writers, we don’t give ourselves permission to write these sorts of exploratory scenes. We’re so focused on publication and getting books and submissions out that we lose sight of the twists and turns in the road. It’s not always a straight path between here and there, folks.

As with everything else, take some time to deviate off the shortest point. Let yourself meander down an unknown road. I bet your fiction will be better for it.

Mine certainly will be.