Once a year I go away for a month, to write. I don’t disclose the location (except to my husband, of course). I take few belongings. My needs are simple: food, shelter…WiFi. Okay, so it’s not exactly Walden’s pond, but then computers weren’t around in Thoreau’s day. Also, without my trusty laptop, it would sort of defeat the purpose. I’m here to write, right?
Time? Two freckles past a hair. Who knows, who cares? I live in my imaginary world. My characters are there to greet me in the mornings when I arise and to whisper in my ear before I go to sleep at night. Mostly, they bitch. Things like “I would never say that” or “Dude, that is so 1980’s” or “Seriously? And you call yourself a writer?” I always listen because they’re always right.
Oops, better run. I hear them calling. “Come on already, we don’t have all day,” they’re saying. Time and tide wait for no man, even imaginary ones.
