Why Does Transit Help Us Write?

Using planes, real and imagined, for creativity.

A view from my recent flight to California.

In Changing Planes, a 2003 short story collection, Ursula Le Guin takes a linguistic coincidence to its logical endpoint: What if the place where we change planes (i.e., airports) was also the place where we changed planes (i.e., universes)?

The result is a charming book with Le Guin’s signature political knowhow and prosaic elegance. Yet I think of it most, selfish creature that I am, as a metaphor for my own writing.

I love to work in transit.

Sitting in a vehicle makes it easier for me to focus. Terminals bring inspiration; an overpriced popcorn stand may well toss stories among stale kernels. Take this newsletter as an example: This month, I had three weeks in my own home and several days in my relatives’ comfortable house with which to write. Instead, I’ve only managed to start typing at the crowded gate of an American Airlines flight!

I know I’m not alone: Many people have shared similar experiences with me. Even more articles exist about the wonders of writing in transit. (And at least one TikTok.) Fits and starts, planes and planes, piecemeal creativity and patchwork concentration.

Why does the liminal space of transit unlock the creative mind?

First, just so we’re on the same page: I’m defining a liminal space as a place or period of transition in which a person and/or their surroundings change. (Sorry, guys. Adjust your academic glasses.) Think of an airport, a waiting room, or an empty hallway. A great intangible example would the state the American critic Deborah Jowitt invoked “between life and death.”

Many qualities inherent in liminal spaces lend themselves to creative focus. Hustle can help us feel similarly hurried, and therefore motivated. Boarding times act as a built-in timer for our writing sprints. The subjects of body doubling, for those of us who use this trick, are plentiful in public. These spots also lack many of our own homes’ built-in distractions, which are wonderfully, woefully, customized for our delight.

Yet I would offer an all-encompassing answer as well: A liminal space is a story. Full stop.

Stay with me.

“Story” is another term worth defining. I like this passage from a 2011 article by the writer and publishing veteran Jane Friedman:

According to Randall Jarrell, a story is first of all a chain of events that begins at one place and ends at another “without any essential interruption.”

Mark Twain agreed. His first rule of writing was “that a tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere.”

So, a story goes somewhere. It follows, with purpose, one or more characters through a series of events. By the end, it arrives at a target destination, fulfilling its reason for having been told.

If the string of events is fairly neutral and straight-forward, we might call it a narrative. A narrative might not be more than a sequence of things that happened, one after the next.

I did this. Then I did this. Then this happened.

If a narrative is basically what happened, a story takes it to the next level. It creates a structure to seek and hold far more significance.

Because we’re defining a liminal space as one where “a person and/or their surroundings change,” we know that a liminal space is—by definition—experienced by humans.

If a liminal space is, by its very nature, a human experience, then we know it’s also one . . .

• with a beginning (arrival), middle (waiting), and end (departure);

• accomplishing something (transit) and arriving somewhere (elsewhere) without interruption (leaving the liminal space—say, an airport and plane);

• containing one or more characters (travelers) through a series of events (from the security checkpoint through baggage claim).

And we know this sequence of events—a narrative—is undertaken for a purpose. People have reasons for their travel.

As such, I propose that liminal spaces are conducive to writing for multiple reasons. Yes, they contain intrinsic features that help me, and at least a few other writers, focus. But their utility stems from a deeper root as well:

It’s easier to remember how to tell a story while we’re immersed in one.

Just as an artist may sketch in a museum, or a composer might find chords at a symphony, or an architect may finally envision the peak of their skyscraper on a bright spring day downtown—writing one story from the heart of another can help us shape and structure the events.

Do you think this is bullshit? It might be! But let me ask you this:

• Did this piece of writing have a beginning, middle, and end?

• Did you reach a new understanding—or misunderstanding—by this sentence?

• Do you agree that I had a purpose in writing this piece?

It may not be your story. (It’s certainly not as elegant as Le Guin’s.) But it is a story.

Now, it’s time to board my flight.

Abby’s Pop Culture Pop-Up

This week, my cousin and I watched twelve episodes of “Wind Breaker,” an anime adaptation of the Japanese manga series, in two days. Hell yeah. Imagine if you could win fights and protect people with nothing but martial arts and *~’ THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP ‘~*. It’s a trope that’ll never grow old—and an unexpectedly moving treatise on the pitfalls of toxic masculinity.

D.J.’s Digest

I have acquired an ice cream maker. I have used it to make David Lebovitz’s vanilla ice cream, with my dad’s tweaks. The people rejoice.

This Month’s Favorites

“Auntie” Swarna scratching an itch at the National Zoo.

Coziest Coffee Shop goes to… Rising for the People in Reno, NV, where my friend Hayden and I had a lovely breakfast.

My Kind of Kidlit goes to… This Rebel Heart by Katherine Locke. What a gorgeous novel, melding historical fiction with shades of magic. I savored it.

The Most Excellent Elephant goes to… Swarna, “auntie” to baby Linh Mai at the National Zoo, scratching her back leg in a rare solo moment. (Photo above.)

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