I live at a crossroad. When my attention falters, I can watch the lights turn and fire trucks rush through the intersection. I live on the edge, where Town turns into Fancy Town, and the road between them is scenic. As such, I often see very fancy cars driving through my intersection as a break between the more plebian, boring cars and the rushing fire trucks.
I have never had anyone offer a guitar for my soul at these crossroads, but it could be that I’m never out at the right time. Maybe my dog scares off the devil. He’s pretty cute; I imagine the devil doesn’t hold with cute.
My manuscript is not at the crossroad. It is on a long state road in Illinois. It’s too green to be truly Midwestern bleak, and it’s too flat to sing to my mountainous heart. But if I keep going, I might finish. And that keeps my attention.
Actually this extended metaphor is both a procrastination technique and a way to admit to the semi-anonymous universe that I think Porsches are insanely beautiful cars. But I still want the 1960s Bug.
How’s your path through the wilderness?