Yes, I cracked. Couldn’t take the New England winter any more, so I ditched and ran to sunny California. I regret nothing. Back home, it’s gray and frigid, then gray and raw, then white and frigid, then…well, you get the idea. Also, renting a teeny little house with a fairy-sized garden is very good for the old imagination.
Sometimes writers talk about refilling the well—an image I don’t like, because I picture myself hauling woodend buckets of water up from a great depth, my hands raw from rope burn, then, inevitably, falling down like Baby Jessica and either dying or finding rotting zombies. I’m pretty sure that’s not what my fellow writers mean.
I think they mean this. Going somewhere new, somewhere quiet and lovely. Being able to open windows and smell flowers, and listen to the waves at night. My teeny house is hidden from the road, down this little maze flanked by shrubbery and flowers. It’s what I call Ikea chic—nothing irreplaceable, everything clean and functional.
This morning, I went to the farmer’s market and bought some veggies. And flowers! And maybe a dog (surprise, McIrish!). No, I didn’t steal the dog, but it was close. I hauled my stuff the mile back and am now happy as can be, sitting on the comfy couch, looking at the palm fronds just outside.
I’ll be writing and writing, gang, so if I’m a little sparse on social media, know that I’m hard at work, hoping you’ll like the end result. xox