Behold, the view of indulgence, the image of selfish absorption, the horizon of nothing but self. I was not traveling into the sunset but away from it. This required me to stop, get out of the car, and look back at where I’d come from as I was escaping all other responsibilities to snatch hold of my focus, holding fast to a singular purpose. On my way east into the darkening sky, I was alone and ready to be self-absorbed for days while remaining well aware of my good fortune to have such privilege. Duncan, Arizona, was my destination, and truthfully, this photo was taken with the reluctance that I somehow feel compelled to publish reports on my blog instead of leaving large gaps so that it might appear that nothing is happening out of the ordinary. That impression would be false, as every day is extraordinary when so much time is allocated to exploring some aspect of creativity, love, and dreams.

My excursion is leading me into a place dwelling inside my head. There are no beer taps or pool tables to be found there, though they could be manifested if the story required such props. I’m at the edge of New Mexico to explore pages that are yet empty, awaiting the tippity-tappity click-click of chicklet keys recording strings of letters being telegraphed to fingers that do the bidding of throwing down words that might one day find their way into someone else’s eyes and mind.

This photo is from inside the Bonnie Heather Inn, which, in all the years of our visits in and through Duncan, has not once been open, but today, it sees the light of day. I suppose that, in a sense, it is like the brain hiding a book, painting, or composition within it until the door is ready to be opened. As I set out on a morning walk, a delivery truck was parked next to the building; the front door was open, which was my invitation to walk into this relic that had been sitting quietly for so long. The proprietor shared how they’d sold the River Front Lodge on the opposing corner and would be opening this place on a more frequent basis. So, while it appeared long abandoned, the saloon/bar/inn is still active and ready to welcome celebrants.

Since mid-June, the novel I’ve been crafting/sculpting/expelling has been on hold; maybe it appeared abandoned. It was not because my fountain of blathering had run dry like the bed of the Gila River in this photo. On the contrary, I still wrote with raging intensity, but instead of adding two more novels worth of material to my draft, I posted two more novels worth of musings here on my blog in the form of travel missives.

This update is my unenthusiastic attempt at dropping breadcrumbs, while my preference would be to maintain a singular concentration on my novel now that I’ve dipped back into the flow. My visit to Duncan was meant to push into high gear the kind of persistence of vision that allows absolute intensity to be given to my pursuit of authorship, and it worked.

After days with my head in the clouds of drifting storylines, I was ready to return to the loving arms of Caroline in Phoenix, though the embrace of my characters is also a fun place to be. As a note to myself, I came back around to my evolving manuscript on Monday, November 4th, with some anxiety because, after opening it for the first time in 143 days, I felt lost and somewhat unfamiliar for the better part of a day as I tried finding the storyline. First, I read a paragraph or two to find myself, but that wasn’t enough. I then attempted going back a few pages, looking for a thread, before I remembered to just put down any word, and the rest would follow.