But distance isn’t the only way it’s a long way. I sit here now in the pre-dawn light when at home it’s mid-morning. The waves are crashing against the rocks outside my window. At home, I’d have to walk a ways to hear a creek running downhill over rocks. Here, I have new and old friends, but no family. Here, I am among dozens of great writers, experienced writers, who are ready and willing to talk and share and give hints on how to improve. At home, all those writer ideas have to come from me.
This is Steinbeck country. He lived here. He loved the place and wrote about it in Cannery Row. Yesterday at lunch he showed up in his slouch hat and sunglasses while we were eating that fabulous dessert I posted on Facebook. Well, not really him, but an actor who pretended to be him and gave us his history. Writers always are eager to hear how our writers did it and he had a beautiful command on the language. Steinbeck, I mean. So we enjoyed.
I am enjoying. Great scenery. Great history. Great company. Today I have more opportunity to learn. I’ll share more when I make that looonnng trip back to where I belong – my home. My roots. That’s what Steinbeck had too. Roots here in Cannery Row.
Where are your roots?