I always have this fantasy that I should move to some remote place by the sea, in a quiet, quaint home and really dedicate my time and energy to my writing. I have these erroneous ideas that this isolation would cause me to become a prolific writer. I would be free from distractions. After all, what else is there to do in these remote corners of the world.
In the winter, I have images of grand snow storms and a warm fire place and hot cups of coffee. In the spring, I sit in my yard and wait for the return of the flowers and the butterflies and the leaves. I'm in my Adirondack chair, drinking coffee. In the summer, I am kayaking and swimming in the cool water and drinking iced coffee. And in the fall, the most gorgeous time of the year, I pull out my sweater again, strap my camera over my shoulder, hike around the area and take an endless volume of photos of the fall foliage. I spend evenings, at the kitchen table, going through all of my photos as I sip my coffee, which has grown cold now.
And then I think about my life now. I waste too much time and there are things to do and places to go in my neighborhood. I could never live in that much isolation. I would go crazy. I would feel stuck. I would be in constant self discussions about my cream for my coffee. Do I have enough. Do I have to make the 17 mile drive to the local food store. Why don't I just learn to drink it black. And what about the damn snow. Do I really want to spend all afternoon, clearing a path from the front door to the damn car. And then I have to get all of that damn snow off my car. And what if my car battery died from the cold. And I would have to make an effort to connect with people so I dont become a looney tune.
I think I will stay right where I am.
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