I finally made it home. Driving through the fields and watching the hillsides that flank our valley, it's like, "well, duh, of course I'm a writer. Geez!" It's too bad no one can afford to live here anymore. Carolyn Kizer still lives here. I'm gonna try and give her my book. But I don't want to seem like a stalker.
New houses everywhere, like a little bit of Southern California sneaking in. Scary.
Reading in my home town is crazy. I kind of feel like Anne of Green Gables returning to Prince Edward Island.
Is it bad that I'll be 30 in a matter of days and I still hold Anne of Green Gables as my model for living?
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