I'm sitting on the porch of my cabin, in a rocking chair, surrounded by a cluster of oak, maple and birch. The air is loamy with the scent of damp leaves, and insects are humming in the trees. The mountains are peeking through the thicket of forest, and gray clouds drift overhead, allowing intermittent rays of sun to peek through.
It feels odd. I miss DH. Really, really miss him. If he were here, I'd be writing, but also going with him to visit antique stores, going for walks, investigating the local happenings.
This is the first writing trip I've taken alone in a long, long time. I took one years ago when I visited Colonial Williamsburg, and wrote a Rev. War book. I was unpublished back then, and just wanted to travel to see and feel the history so I could bring a touch of authenticity to the story.
Never did sell it. Probably never will.
At breakfast this morning, talked with a couple from Ohio, who were leaving today. Others from Ohio were talking about Ike, which has wreaked havoc on their hometown. Corn mazes were toppled, power is out. And gas prices have risen.
In Knoxville, before Ike, gas was about $3.80. Now it's $5 and some gas stations ran out.
It's easy to bury myself here, away from reality, which will come soon enough next week when I return to the "real job."
Not that writing isn't a real job. It is, but not my main source of income. So when I spend a week to come up here, and finish a book, and edit, it feels more like I'm on vacation instead of working.
I wrote 2,500 words so far today. Promised myself if I can make it to 62,000 words today, I'd give myself a treat this afternoon of a drive into town and touring around.
Guess I'd better get back to work and concentrate on Emily's internal conflict. It's shifted because events have drastically changed. But I think it will be okay. I'll just have to tweak her around some more.