Saturday, July 19, 2014

the geography of writing


It is possible and desirable to write at home in the middle of your life: necessary even. But if you go on a writing retreat… you have as a bonus the wonderful feeling of being removed from your life, by a fast moving plane and several thousand (?) miles of air. I am obligationless. My vacation responder is on. My only duty for a week is to write as much as I can.
The first station of the writing
S and I are in the Reno Airport Hyatt, with just the hum of the air conditioner and the softly subdued yellowish lighting in our lounging area (L-shaped couch, desk area, wet bar). We have a view of the hills around Reno – brownish purple and mystical looking. Outside it’s 91-ish: “it’s a dry heat” I heard someone say at the airport, as if it was the first time anyone had ever thought such a thing.
We are writing: Sue at the desk, and me on the L-shape. Her notes will be more quizzical and image-ful (she’s a poet). Mine will be yearning toward plot (fiction writer).
It is funny to think of us here so many years after the beginnings of our long sister affair – playing in the backyard or in the dining room under the table with all the dolls, fighting in dad’s chair (the black eye), talking together, each in our single bed, with the bathroom door open a crack to let out a wedge of light in lieu of a nightlight.

 

 

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