Editing, writing and drinking good coffee on this last day of the year (its actually not Starbucks…it’s a Mexican roast my wife ordered on the Internet).  I resolve to do this much more often in 2011.  Happy New Year all.


Photo writing prompt 

It probably hasn’t been too easy to remember over the past few months that this blog is supposed to be for both creative writing and photography.  I love the idea of using both of these mediums together.  So it was as I was looking through some of my older pictures that I came across this…a photo taken in Iceland of a partially completed boat.  I really don’t know anything else about the setting.  I simply saw the boat, and wanted to take the picture. 

Now, years later, it caught my eye, and a story idea jumped out.  And as sometimes happens with this kind of inspiration, the boat in this story idea is nowhere near Iceland.  I’ve worked on it for a couple of days now, and although I’m struggling with a key idea or two, I’m pleased with how this short story is coming along.  Interestingly, I think it’s evolving into dark fiction, possibly even horror, although I don’t know that I feel comfortable calling it that.  Once I can step back a little, I’ll share some of it.

I’m not the first person who feels that it’s the writer’s true occupation to travel. In a certain sense, a writer is an exile, an outsider, always reporting on things, and it is part of his life to keep on the move. Travel is natural. Furthermore, many men of ancient times died on the road, and the image is a strong one. … One thing I saw in England long ago struck me and has always stayed with me. I was going to visit someone in a little village, walking from the railway station across the fields, and I saw an old man, perhaps in his seventies, with a pack on his back. He looked to be a vagabond, dignified, somewhat threadbare, marching along with his staff. A dog trotted at his heels. It was an image I thought should be the final one of a life. Traveling on.

James Salter, as interviewed by Edward Hirsch for The Paris Review, 1930.

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(via condenasttraveler)

I loved this quote.  Writers are fundamentally travelers.