Reading the Internal Compass
by David Burn

Place has always been a central theme in my life. As a child I could sit for hours studying maps, and 
wondering about the places I examined. I can also remember how the very act of putting on a John 
Denver record in our apartment in suburban Chicago would transport me, quite literally to another place. 
A place I ached for in 1977, and still do. With maturity comes the realization that perhaps this place is mythical. 
Certainly, if one were to visit Aspen, Colorado today in search of that place inside a John Denver melody, 
disappointment could result. The "Rocky Mountain High" may exist somewhere, but I don't think it's in Pitkin 
County. That is, unless you're a big cheese who regularly flies in by private jet. Then, Aspen most likely still 
satisfies. 

My first conscious choice regarding place occurred in June 1989. I left my first job out of college in 
Washington, DC in order to move to San Francisco. Once again, I heard siren songs. Listening to Grateful 
Dead at that time gave me what I believed to be a tangible sense of California. The music made me long 
for "the place." No longer twelve and into John Denver, I was able to make it happen this time. The romance 
of California wore off however, and two years later I chose another great place to live--Salt Lake City, Utah. 

Hemingway, in The Sun Also Rises, writes about the world being a "good place to buy in." Hem was our 
consummate sensualist. And he found many splendid places to buy in: Paris, Spain, Bimini, and pre-
Revolutionary Cuba, to name a few. But where to buy in today, forty years after our hero blew his brains 
out at home in Idaho? As I write this piece, I'm at home in Omaha, Nebraska at my desk in my newly restored 
Old Market loft. I've been back nine months now, after twenty five years "exploring other places." Yet, I 
wonder daily if I'm buying back in. The state university here likes to boast, "There's no place like Nebraska." 
I'm inclined to believe it. But that doesn't mean I'm ready to buy back in. 

As a writer I ask myself, what do I need to work? My tools, a place to concentrate, cheap rent. All available 
in Nebraska. Then there's inspiration and support from a creative community. Those elements might be more 
abundant elsewhere. When I imagine an inspiring place to live and write, I conjure images of Ed Abbey 
crafting his masterpiece, Desert Solitaire, in a hot, rusty tin can of a home up some lonely canyon in southern 
Utah. It's at once appealing and revolting to me. I'm attracted to the connection with nature, but couldn't 
possibly cut myself off from humanity like that. I need characters to inspire me--musicians, painters, writers, 
gurus, entrepreneurs, freaks, and fashionistas.

Ultimately, what I explore in my work is the connection between place, or setting in the literary vernacular, 
and character. That link is unbreakable in my opinion. Characters belong to a place, and so do their stories. 
Writers need to belong to a place, as well. A person may belong to multiple places, I suppose. I know I have 
done this. But, the need to deeply connect with a community and a place is something I continue to seek.

Nebraska is a simpler life. The pace is relaxed. There's time to stop and smell the proverbial roses. Commuting 
is a non-issue. Finding a parking place is no hassle. It's my contention that with less distractions we (Midwestern 
folk) have time to be nice, time to care, and time to listen. We may not rate on the hip scale, but there are plenty 
of other measuring sticks where we not only rate, but rule. The more time I spend here, the more these things 
seem to matter.


Note: This essay has been edited from its original form. The original essay is available here. This essay has some rights reserved.