I grew up in the foothills of the Appalachian range, in a city surrounded by mountains. While I didn’t live on a mountain myself, I ascended them often, twisting and turning on roads that wound through the monumental rock. It’s taken me many years of living in flat St. Louis, followed by flat Philadelphia, and then flat Atlanta, for me to fully appreciate the mountains.
Thankfully, they are not far from me here. A little over an hour’s drive and I’m approaching them, first green rolling hills, then sharper peaks so high I can’t make out where one range ends and the next begins.
My story has begun unraveling, surprising me with its twists and turns, its sharp edges, its seemingly endless distance– in these mountains.
Whispering to me the novel I must write.