The Writing Life

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I’m a sailor living inland now—grounded in rural South Carolina where everyday something happens to remind me of the sea: a certain sweetness in the air, a breeze making waves ripple across grasses of my pasture, the sound wind makes approaching through acres of trees.

I’m pretty sure I’m alone in these observations. I’ve seen no other sailors here.

I’m pretty sure there’s no other writers here either, at least none tackling it every day, doomed like Sisyphus to push that boulder up hill only to have it roll back down as it nears the top.

sailor living inland Sysyphus

Bad things happened, an entire run of them that shut me down, caused me to withdraw from everything except my inner self.

One afternoon, in a hammock, I took a photo of myself. Just my legs. But there was no one to send it to. No one to understand.

I needed a sidekick so I sketched an armadillo because they’re crusty on the outside but not within. I made him my butler. Crusoe’s manservant Friday.

We began interacting—my hammock photo speaking to that critter, that critter speaking back.There’s a folder of cartoons somewhere. For now there’s just this one. (LINK)

Eventually after that I began writing novels.

I’m still a hermit, marooned you might say, but leaving my shell more and more—my inner self seeking its freedom through writing.