A Dash to the Country

I have seldom had a better trip. We like to go to the town where I lived when I was a kid. There is a pretty decent little bus that goes out that way departing every hour, and it only takes 3 hours to ge there. It is kind of our Duluth.

We were awake at 4AM, so we got ready and departed, arriving there in time to visit 3 different coffee shops before an early lunch. And that’s where it really started going right. I started writing and by the time we were done with the third coffee shop, I think I had figured out a story.

Here’s the thing with my stories. I get an idea and work on it, but I never know where I’m going. So I write the beginning and then I have to figure out where to take it, and that is the hard part. I have a bunch of started stories, some from many years back. I go back and read then and if I still like what I have I start working on figuring them out; and I have found coffee shops work.

After lunch it was out to Iza, and a half hour walk on the unpaved road out to our resort. It is a wonderful place with hot springs, so they have a turkish bath, a warm-water pool, and country seclusion. The mountain on our right was thundering all the way along that road, but it held off raining till we were there. From the hammock I listened to the rain, listened to the busy birds, read Heller; and when the lighting had passed on east, I fell asleep a while.

After that, we had some cheer and again I wrote, and I think I figured out a good bit on a second story I took. So then the turkish bath for 45 minutes or so, and then in the drizzle that lingered on till dusk the pool. Nice that, being out in the rain bathing warm. The steam rose from the surface, there was fog on the mountains, I listened to the birds, watched a cow up on the hill, got wrinkled.

After that I had what they call a club sandwich there, which comes with a scrambled egg. Wrote at that time as well. Then off to the fireplace, Heller (intellectually exhilarating, Heller. If you have not read The Disinherited Mind and you’re at all Barfieldian, then do), a lot of time rebuilding the fire for the chap till it roared, then off to bed (I checked the next morning: nothing left to the stuff I added to the fire but cinder).

No heating in the rooms and it was about 40 degrees–which, when you have woolen blankets and like the weight–is optimal. Slept till 3AM. Woke up, went to look outside, dark and quiet and cool. No stars, but a lot of country peace. Lit a candle and went to bed again, where I wrestled with my demons till 4AM, I’m guessing, and knew nothing more till rather closer to 9AM than 8.

Breakfast. Walk into town in the morning sunlight, caught bus there, at the terminal in Sogamoso we got the bus leaving right away, 3 hrs to Bogotá. Not a lot of writing takes place for me in the bus, nor reading.

Rather than go home, since I had a meeting at church at 4PM, I went to get lunch at the mall. Worked on the third story there. Then I realized I didn’t have keys for church. Time, therefore, for coffee and there, wonderfully, I think I figured out how to make the third story work. Pretty pleased about that one. So pleased I finished my coffee watching some team called BOT and some team called TOT going at it on ESPN+ on the large screen in the shop.

With the good work on the stories, it was not so hard, when I checked at an internet cafe, to find two new rejections. One of these days I am going to connect, and then I will have a string of them all ready to go.


2 thoughts on “A Dash to the Country

  1. Nice picture of the back of a bird. Birds are frequently uncooperative little miscreants, photowise.

    I suspect if one knows to well where one is going in a work, it doesn’t turn out the best.

    Was BOT vs. TOT soccer (football for the rest of the world)? I have a newfound appreciation for that sport.

  2. My wife is the one with the vulgar habit of photography, not I. She does the dirty work and I reap the benefits without soiling my hands. And they’re nice pictures. I like the one of Iza enough to print it out and frame it, should I no longer find myself in this country.

    People are different in how they write. I don’t feel bad about my procedure since I know its what Neil Gaiman does and he does rather well, if rather diabolically.

    Yes, they’re playing football, not American. I believe they were in England.

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