Writing in the Country
Growing up on 1,200 acres, I learned to take certain things for granted: peace, privacy, room to move, quiet nights, stars in the sky, unleashed animals, unlocked doors, and unarmed neighbors.
I hated it. Couldn’t wait to get out of that suffocating little town, see the world, experience real living, and leave my country roots behind — so I hit the road for college and never looked back.
But after 10 years of city living, I felt the most important part of me dying. The constant low moans of traffic in the distance, the ever-present neon lights, the stench of greasy restaurants, the flood of people rushing about importantly in their cars-they-care-too-much-about…all of these things picked me apart slowly, one day at a time.
So I left. Bought some acres in the country, where our closest neighbor is Bill–a man who farms about 200 acres and raises beef cattle. He drives a shitty truck, which he seems to enjoy. In the country, we see deer and turkeys, muskrats and snakes, turtles and sandhill cranes, eagles, and even bears. When we look out our front windows, we see Farmer Bill’s barn and silos in the distance. Out here, the night sky is black and starry.
This is where I will flourish as a writer. This is a place that inspires me to notice all the beauty and goodness in the world, instead of just the sounds of mufflers and domestic disputes.
