I’ve decided that every time I have a major writing assignment I should just fly up to Maine and write here. Being home alone in this house, waking up to the sounds of the wind, staring out at the marsh every day while I work, smelling the cold autumn air, the changing leaves… it’s all perfect. Homer, Kent, Longfellow, King - I get it you guys! I get why you all did your best work here! It’s heaven on Earth!
Also I get how at least two of those dudes turned into major recluses. I am totally getting my hermit on here and I’m into it. I don’t need human interaction. Shit, I don’t even need a car! Although the car thing is mostly because my dad & stepmom stocked the fridge for me before they left. But whatever. Someday after I’ve made lots of money in LA I’m just going to move back to Maine and live in a log cabin overlooking the water and no one will see me for like thirty years and I’ll just pump out a new memoir every decade or so to stay relevant. That’s the plan!
We’re finally in Maine and I’m finally able to settle in somewhere for a week. Thank God because I haven’t really had a solid chance to write since I left LA and it’s been stressing me out.
We listened to lots of podcasts on the drive from New York - Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me, This American Life, WTF with Marc Maron. At one point my stepmom apologized to the car seat for jabbing it with her elbow. At another point I farted and no one noticed. My brother was acting like a baby and any time he sighed extra loud my dad and I would lock eyes in the rear view mirror and try our hardest not to laugh. Oh and the cat peed on my bag because she couldn’t find her litter box.
It’s rainy and muggy here and smells like the ocean and I couldn’t be happier.