It's a journey, and it continues

The first novel I wrote after moving away from Edinburgh was effectively a love letter to the city. I described Arthur's Seat, the gardens, Princes Street, the Scott Monument, and many other aspects I'd loved over the years in a way that fit and framed and painted my story. I'm no Ian Rankin, but I did my best. Although the story could have taken place in another city - the same way I suppose they could hold the Edinburgh Tattoo in another city - it didn't, (and they shouldn't.)



It took me two years in Terrace before I wrote a novel that was a type of love letter to this town. By then I'd figured out why people love it here and stay their whole lives. It might not be my fate, but the surroundings and much of the community is of a quality I have not found anywhere else. I have made friends here that I already know will last my lifetime, and I'm extremely grateful as well as foolishly proud of what I've found and what has found me.



And now my time here is just about over. Part of my exciting news from last month is that I'm moving far, far away from this lovely land, to somewhere I've never lived before. For an adventurer like me, that's exactly how it should be done.



I find interest and inspiration no matter where I go. I've written in notebooks on trains, on napkins in ferry cafeterias, on my hand while walking down the street, and yes, with a laptop in Starbucks. I've written in Canada, in Europe, and somewhere in between at 35,000 feet. Thanks to technology's devious lack of borders, this weblog will follow me no matter where I go (um - so long as I have internet access.) Who knows what novel I'll write next? A love story for London, or a lament for lost places? Either way, I'm good to go.