Location. Location. Location...

A real writer can write anywhere, so I've heard said, and I reckon that is likely true, although I've found I can write better in some places than others. 

The Main Muse and I have spent a good part of our lives in cities. A lot happens there. So much happens that it takes a few years to realize that most of it pretty much makes the same sort of noise.

My writing got better when we left the urban desert six years ago and headed for the hills. The best writing, I think, happens on the edges. We live in a little mountain town now, some would call it a village, where we know most of our neighbors by name. People tend to treat one another right here because by tomorrow, the whole town will know all about what went on. Everything is close up here. Nobody is ever far from the edge. We can stand on our front porch and look across town and see the woods on the other side. 

We like our life on the edge. Not city-dwellers, by any measure, but not exactly wilderness sojourners, either. Most of our neighbors are human, but we have met deer on the street, and bears have sorted our garbage on occasion. We can hear fox and coyotes at night, and on summer evenings, jazz drifting up the hill from Main Street. We have some basic comforts and diversions of town, people to talk to, electricity, running water, and we can see the wild from our dooryard. It's easier to write about anything when there's a little distance between, but not too much.

Henry's books.


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