Tuesday, January 22nd, 2008
Sure, sometimes I yearn for the desert.
I still have no idea how to write New England.
First you have to layer about seven itchy sweaters–make the first one a turtleneck. Then you have to guzzle hot chocolate while your feet are submerged in a bucket of ice water. This will effectively recreate the temperature changes that dominate the region. Add in a shot of tequila, a big stein of hot spiced rum, a chaser of cold apple cider, and wait for the first sunrise after a bitterly cold night. When your yard glistens like the fairie Queen’s best ball gown, you’ll know why we (or me, at least) put up with this wretched real estate.
And state everything, even the pretty things, as though you’ve just bit a lemon.
You could write about Hartford or even the groton area. I started my short story about CT with an illustration of a 1950s diner. I hope this helps.
So take a walk in the woods on a winter’s day, when the monochromatics contrast the bright blue of the sky like an alien earth. Or in the springtime when each footstep brings up the sweet smell of moss and all branches bear the hint of a yellowing, reddening, greening threat of bursting into the song of leaves. In summer, the welcoming shade turns to the dark enfolding of firs that promise absorption of soul in the scent of their arms. And in autumn where the scurry of unseen activity rustles the leaves into noisy life and the colors fall gently in your path.
I would miss all this in your desert, just as you miss the heat and the bright shapes and colors that rise from its bosom.
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