Kate Thornton is a retired US Army officer who enjoys writing both mysteries and science fiction. With over 100 short stories in print, she teaches a short story class and is currently working on a series of romantic suspense novels. She divides her time between Southern California and Tucson, Arizona.
Writing in the Other Place
Writing is a solitary pursuit; when we write, we are alone with just a gazillion characters, situations, what-ifs and possibilities. It is a good time to create, experiment, and procrastinate.
Writing needs its own space, its own time and place. For some, it is the dining room table after the kids are asleep, or the home office complete with bookshelves and cat. For others it is the local Starbuck’s or the cluttered desk at work before work starts.
For a few of us, it is a different house in a different state.
I live in Paradise, in Southern California, where it is beautiful every single day of the year. I live in the house of my dreams, a mid-century modern masterpiece of light and space, with lush gardens and a small pool. I have my own office, a light-filled room with bookshelves. I am fortunate to see these dreams realized after a lifetime of hard work.
So what’s the problem?
Like a suitor who has been wooing the beautiful sister only to have his heart stolen by the mousy little girl with the great personality, I have been seeing another house on the side for a couple of years. A vacation home to start, it has become The Place and will soon become my permanent home.
I am moving to Tucson, Arizona.
|Photo by Albert Voirin|
Yes, the house is smaller, not so beautiful, with a much smaller garden. A garden, I might add, not filled with fruit trees and orchids, but cactus, for crying out loud. There isn’t a home office, just a little desk almost big enough for my laptop. Yes, the light alternates between blinding sun and dark clouds. Yes, it is hotter than buried coals in the summer and it actually freezes in the winter. There are monsoons and floods and heat so dry you could juggle your laundry in the air for 10 minutes and everything would be perfectly crisp.
But what can I do? It is the place where I can write. It is the place where I can be happy. When I am there, I don’t want to come back. When I am there, I write.
I have friends there now, and enjoy the company of other writers. There is a thriving community of arts and letters in Tucson, and now I am a part of it.
So I am moving there. Moving – especially at my age – is a big pain, but it is necessary. I can’t believe how much junk I have accumulated over just the last ten years, but only the necessities are going with us. Yes, my dear husband is on board with this. In fact, he may be even more eager to move than I.
|Photo by Albert Voirin|
So for now, we make periodic trips across the deserts to take stuff and when I am there, I write. I have dug out trunk novels and unfinished short stories. I spend time at the computer undistracted by television or Facebook or anything. I feel the light and the sun on me, and the gentle whoosh of the air conditioner or the cries of unfamiliar birds through an open door or the crackle of a log in the fireplace. And sometimes, I hear the pounding of rain, relentless, almost frightening in its intensity. But when I get up to look, the sky is already clear and the sun is making steam rise from a hot pavement.
I have found my writing place and it is 500 miles from where I am writing this now.
I look forward to this new chapter in my life, although I know I won’t have much of an excuse for procrastination there. All the more reason to do it.