Location, location, location.

Thanks to my commenters on yesterday’s post. I felt weird about putting that story out there, and I appreciate the feedback on it (and support for the writing). I wonder if this story came out because of the novel I’m working on – set in the 1920s and 30s but close to the same stretch of dirt road I wrote about yesterday. This one five-mile stretch of dirt road is everywhere in my imagination. No matter what theme I’m writing from, this historic novel, the post-collapse novel I have already started writing in my head…. The times I remember most from my childhood. That place. That place. That place.

I haven’t been there since 2002 and before that I hadn’t been there since 1993. But every summer from birth until I was seventeen I spent time there and out of a very poor childhood memory it has left some of the only recollections I have of my youth. Which is a bit unfortunate since it’s quite a dark place in my imagination still. Cold, somehow. Judging. I can’t explain it exactly but my father thinks it’s a place of negative energy (and he’s no hippie flake) and always hated going there in the summer.

Whatever it is, this stretch of dirt road is the location of all my escape fantasies and my nightmares. I’m not quite sure why but I think I’m due back for a visit.