As I settle in to write this post, everything feels a bit topsy-turvy and upside down because I have to drag myself out of a routine that has become an everyday habit: writing a book (possibly). The very reason I found myself in Duncan again about two weeks after my last visit was due to my desire to go deeper into the wordsmithing, and so if I’ve been occupied by putting the proverbial pen to paper, why should writing this particular update be a slightly intrusive chore? Because it’s not what I’m used to writing.

That other side of my writing, the side readers of my blog cannot currently see, has been a flow of inspiration running through me and into a document that grows longer with meandering curves and movements that remain in the draft stage.

Consider a brand-new pair of handcrafted socks, one cannot wear them before the last stitch has been added. The same goes for what I’m working on, as nobody knows if I’ll reach the end. Also, when Caroline knitted these new socks over the previous weeks, all she could do was add one stitch at a time. I’m adding one letter, one word, one sentence at a time.

Unlike in face-to-face conversations, nothing in writing is conveyed in real time. There is always a lag, and so it is also true of this post that is taking shape in mid-March, only to be posted in February. The post had to wait, as at the forefront of my intention, I’ve been dumping almost every bit of myself into determining if I possess the wherewithal to accomplish such a lofty task as writing something longer than I’ve attempted to date. From my perspective here in the future, I can assure you that I’ve eclipsed my previous efforts and that momentum is carrying the story further down the proverbial page, at least as of this moment.

The snow-capped mountain in the distance is Mt. Graham, where Caroline and I visited the telescopes perched up top. On this trip to Duncan, I am traveling solo, which helps me focus every effort on my task at hand, but there’s only so far I can go in my head before I need to get out and stretch my eyes beyond the screen. It’s a rare day when out walking, talking to my muse, that I don’t leave with something, and today I had to stop along the way on my walk into New Mexico and take note of the Japanese concept of “Forest Bathing,” a.k.a., Shinrin’yoku that would become “Desert Bathing,” or Sabaku’yoku in the larger body of text I toil with on a daily basis.

Metaphors appear in everything: through a small break in a window, I peered into an old garage, spotting some classic cars, with one looking magnificent in the shadowy light of morning. I must do the same thing with my mind, which arrives with no small amount of anxiety rushing toward me. Who really knows how full the garage of their imagination is and if what’s in it has value or if it’s crammed floor to ceiling with useless junk? At a point in my writing, I may have to reconcile the wisdom found in the idiom, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” and hope that my treasure might have value beyond trash for others.

This is a consolidation post covering the previous five nights that I was staying at the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona. Why was I staying at the Simpson with proprietors Deborah and Clayton for this length of time? I was on a mission to write. And what does this train have to do with any of this? I still need to get my steps in, and as I’ve never seen this freight train in all the years Caroline and I have been traveling out this way, I felt it was high time to run out and catch it. Lucky for me, the whistle of its approach can be heard from the crossing preceding this one. The train is on its way to the copper mine up in Clifton-Morenci, and after it finishes its northwest trek it will turn around and head right back through here in about four hours, as it returns to New Mexico.

Following my routine out here in Eastern Arizona, I’ll be seated at the table in the parlor of this old west hotel by sunrise to start writing. Coffee will arrive at about 9:00, If I so desired, I could have it earlier, but I’m in no rush. As I’ve written previously, the luxurious vegetarian breakfasts are nothing less than a level of spectacular that only Marcel Proust could adequately describe. By 10:00, I’ll be done eating, though I only move one seat, back to where I originally occupied a place at the table, in order to continue tossing words upon the electronic paper.

By lunchtime or maybe early dinner, I’ve got to get up from the hardwood chair to get the blood flowing and gather more steps on my path of trying to maintain the 10k goal Caroline and I have. Speaking of Caroline, she’s working from home this week while I attempt to maintain a deep focus on the subject matter of writing. The good news is that my productivity nearly tripled during my stay, which wasn’t a certainty, but it turns out that not having a parade of people with whom I’ve cultivated regular conversations passing by in any of the multitude of coffee shops I frequent. Here in Duncan, I’m able to find a level of concentration that is elusive while I’m in Phoenix.

Many of my afternoon and/or evening meals are taken at the only restaurant in town, the Ranch House Restaurant, a classic small-town joint where I obviously stand out. The situation might be easily repaired by me donning a baseball cap, or if I were willing to invest in proper Western gear and a pricey cowboy hat, I too could look like a boss and get the respect the staff and other patrons offer these icons of the local community. Alas, I’m a simple hatless man who doesn’t really fit in. After eating, it’s time to collect a few more steps and talk to my muse about the direction of what I might be writing when I return to the hotel.

And then I write, write, and write some more. No, I’m not visiting the post office to drop these missives. They are collected in a growing document in which I’m working on the roots and trunk of something I hope will grow into a fully formed tree with dozens of branches and tens of thousands of leaves. I did learn over these five days that intense writing sessions can wear one down and that when an incredible burst of productivity is realized, the consequence might be a total loss of inspiration to go further. A break was required.

So, this would be my last day in Duncan, and though Deborah and Clayton offered me an extra day, my forlorn heart required a dose of Caroline to resuscitate it from its longing to be embraced by her loving arms. Not expecting me until the following day, my Saturday return was a surprise to her and a relief for me.