Two weeks ago, I left the cubicle I’d been working in for the past three years.
Now I’m in Taos, New Mexico for a three-month residency at the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation.
I have a little house, a casita. The floors are heated, though when I’m inside I’m usually wearing socks, and my writing uniform: a sweatshirt, leggings, and depending on the temperature and time of day, a Snuggie.
Things are different here. Crickets chirp loudly, even in the daytime. I hike to hot springs and pick sage and lavender and wildflowers. The light is blinding, the skies (and cars) enormous, and the temperature drops about 40 degrees every night. There are no streetlights, no sidewalks. There are two colors of flowers: purple and yellow. Prairie dogs dart in and out of holes in the ground.
I don’t miss New York at all, though all the books I read have New York in them.
Mountains are everywhere. Riding my bike down a dirt road, I shout out loud at the view in front of me: “What the fuck is this. Get the fuck out of here. Seriously, fuck me.”
I’ve waited over a year to get here, for these three months. I put everything on hold, my apartment, my work, my life. I try not to think if I’ve made a terrible mistake.
I fall for silence. Life is good when you don’t have to ride the L train.
I’m plotting out my next novel, slowly.