I only know of this place through pictures. A cozy one room cabin nestled deep in the woods. In my mind there is a lake nearby it could even have a rope swing. I am going here in a month to spend the first vacation I will have had in my adult life. I can see it now.
Waking with the dawn under a patchwork quilt in a handmade log cabin. To my left there is a table and on it a borrowed sea-foam green typewriter. My manuscript next to it with lines of text hammered onto each page. I grunt as I roll to my side not wanting to get out of bed. Still. There must be coffee.
Next to the mini fridge sits a compact coffee maker. I have used it more the last three days than it has been used since it found it’s home here. I crack open the cheap coffee container and scoop the grounds into the filter. Soon there will be coffee. Soon all will be right in the world.
I have only eaten ramen and cereal with a side of canned green beans (french cut) and fruit. I wanted to eat like a true recluse. It has been three days since I have spoken to anyone. No television. No phone. No radio.
Just me a typewriter and coffee. While I did bring a few books with me to take on the trails I have spent most of my time writing. I stayed awake into the early morning hours and at who knows what time I finally finished a book.
It is awful. The book I mean. But I finished it. I wrote a book. It is there. On the table. It is real. I can touch it. After all this time. It is finally this tangible thing in the world. And I made it happen.
I sit on the porch drinking my coffee and I don’t think about how the quality of the book. I know there will be many a rewrite and edit to come. The important thing is that I finished something. And I can hold it in my hand.