Here I am at the end of another Novel-in-Progress Bookcamp. This is my sixth year as writer-in-residence here and I love this gig. The writers who come are serious and work hard; my fellow staff members are a joy to be with; the caffeine flows freely; the food is plentiful; the place is beautiful. And in the evenings there’s beer, wine, and chocolate. What’s not to love?
View from my window
Lonely bull on the neighboring farm. His cows and calves have been moved to a pasture over the hill. He keeps bellowing for them. They’ll be back next week when the near pasture’s grown in again, but meanwhile he has no one for company but a big flock of geese and some heirloom chickens. (He’s a Belted Galloway, for those of you keeping score.)
The front of the property is a retirement home for goats and horses. Right now two aged goats and an old pony are in residence.
After this week’s weather more streams than usual are flowing on the 100 acre property. Some of the new ones are in what are usually paths. This one, however, is a real stream.
You’re in Wisconsin. If it’s in a real creek bed, it’s a creek (actually, “crick”). We don’t say fancy words like “stream” around these parts.
Ooops. Is that like when I said “y’all” to one individual person in Mississippi? These nuances of dialect, man, they’re hard! This was a crick.