The stormy weather all over New England has been disastrous and deadly this week. Relatives in different parts of the country have phoned in to check on us, asking if the lake jumped the road and flowed onto our property. Luckily, it's spring-fed, not stream-fed and absorbs torrential downpours rather well. Our roads are increasingly rutted, but not washed out or impassable.
We're okay--if a bit grumpy--here at The Lodge, but our hearts ache for all those who have suffered flooding. Or worse.
Confined to my house, I've created my own little storm of writing. Revising and polishing a sizeable chunk of a book has been my refuge from bad and worsening news on so many fronts.
I'm one of the few writers, apparently, who was able to keep on writing in the aftermath of 9/11. My personal experiences during that day and the days that followed are some of my very worst memories. For a long time I was separated from everyone I love--there was no one to interact with except my own characters.
I prefer not to rely on writing as a form of therapy. (On the contrary, it's more likely that this crazy profession will propel me into the madhouse!) And while it's not a means of escapism, either, there's no denying that at the moment my fictional world is better, brighter place than the real one.
At least the sun sometimes shines in my work-in-progress. Whereas in New England, we haven't seen it for more than a week....
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