So I’m working on a new novel, which is really the only part about being a writer I like. I was just visiting a friend who went to one of my readings and commented on how cool it was to have people listening to me, paying attention to what I say, and discussing my work. He asked what I thought of it, and if I took it for granted, and I told him Yes, I thought I did. Readings/signings have their ups and downs, and as many writers attest, it’s not unusual to go to an event and have only a few people (or none) in attendance. My friend was at a well-attended event and that’s nice, but I don’t forget the ones that were sparsely attended, either. But most writers—and count me among this category—love literature, and love the ability to put their work into the mix, to be a part of the greater literary world, to do their best to rub shoulders with the likes of, say, William Shakespeare, William Faulkner, or, more recently (and one of my favorites), Cormac McCarthy. Which brings me to my new novel, in which I’m writing about a small-town lawyer whose son has disappeared, believed to be abducted, and who is, understandably, freaking out, melting down. But when I’m creating a character—a person—I can’t help but think about What Defines Us. Two of those things are Where We Live, and What We Do. And it’s natural to think of yourself in that vein, think about where you live, what you do, and how it affects you. I live at the foot of a thirteen-thousand foot mountain in Southern Colorado, in the U.S. of A., and I’m sure it shapes me, to see that looming peak behind me. What I do is make up stories, crafted into literary work that hopefully enters the imaginative fray, makes an addition to the cultural soup—stories that offer some vision of the world, stories to make us think. And it makes me think about other people as well, where they live, what they do, and how it influences our world. So I’m just throwing it out on the table, so to speak. Where do you live? What do you do? Here’s a pic of my backyard mountain, Spread Eagle Peak:
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