I camped in a shack on eleven acres of nowhere-ville someplace amongst the northern Catskill Mountains. I hiked around barefoot and held marshmallows over open flames until they torched into crispy black gobs of carbon-y goodness.
I don’t think I’m a “city” character per se, I just backflip over certain populated areas like New York, Amsterdam and the sort…I grew up in the country. We weren’t allowed to be inside as kids, my best friend and I.
One day, when I’m a world-renowned best-selling author, I’ll probably have a few acres on a couple of continents – preferably touching water. I don’t reckon that’s too much to ask. Naturally I will continue to visit my cities with grace and adoration – but I’ll happily saunter back to a field of flying kites, picnic blankets and wild flowers. Somewhere, in a land, far away.
After 48-hours of river rushing over my naked toes, I returned to New York City.
The puppies weren’t impressed. I can see in their furry faces that neither one of them is so certain about exactly what I’m trying to do around here. But I turned away from them and flipped open my spiral bound ink pad that had notes about exactly what that first chapter will be and all of the ways that each story of my novel ties to the next one to build a new kind of book.
I stood out on my balcony and had a margarita. Then I came back in to re-organize chapters, again.
Writing is so much fun. It makes my life. I am so happy that there is one consistency that has never, and can never, go away.
To words… blog tribe. x