I have to add an addendum to my earlier post about how travel discombobulates my life. I already mentioned the benefits of discombobulation, but then I went on and on about how hard it is to write stories, and that’s really just half the story.
When you’re putting something out wth your name on it, you have to work on it and polish it, that’s true, but the end result is so worth it.
Once I write them, these stories become a source of delight to me. I confess I love to reread them and travel back to the hill forts of Ireland or the tiny islands in the Gulf of Maine. And guess what? I’m never sorry I took so much time and trouble writing them. I never wish I had dashed it off or mailed it in.
I hope these stories say a lot about the places I visited. That’s the purpose, after all. But they say a good deal about me, too. So they become little footprints on the sands of time.
So I might be fretting and fussing and pacing around the room, but it doesn’t mean I’m not having a great time.