When I first set off on a writing trek to finish Artania IV I didn’t know what to expect. I’d read about other writers who used solitude to create, setting off on adventures across the country while scribbling away at their yellow pads or pounding at ancient keys on black Royal typewriters. The romantic in me imagined a Steinbeck, Hemingway, Thoreau journey into the profound.
As I began driving down Highway 166 I could barely contain my excitement. I cranked the radio singing along to “Are You Going to San Francisco” and “Free Fallin'” at the top of my lungs. I was in a twirling fantasy of whatever might come. I even stopped by the side of the road just to twirl in circles.
The further I drove the more beauty I saw. The hills grew softer, the sky bluer, even the cows were looking like sublime mythical creatures.
I was going inward to a place of my own making.