Yesterday, I became so frustrated with my work-in-progress, after dinner I jumped in my car, drove 1.5 hours home, grabbed a few books and other stuff to work on, spent the night at my house, and drove back to Hambidge this morning.
It had been eight days since I was last at my bright, centrally air-conditioned, mildew-free home. Had I made this trip home two or three days after starting Hambidge, I might have stayed home, what with all the bugs in my studio, the critters charging across my roof, the near-constant watch for black bears (though I haven’t seen any yet), and a darkness darker than any night I’d ever experienced.
I might have crawled into my memory foam mattress at home, pulled the quilt up to my forehead, and fallen into a deep, impenetrable sleep.
But this morning, as I traversed north toward the Georgia/North Carolina border, back toward the mountains and rivers and boiled peanut stands and antique stores and flea markets, I looked forward to my return to my damp studio, its warped windows, my insect-shared habitat. I welcomed the thought of three more days in this small corner of the world, with just me, my laptop, and the mountains.
It really is something here.