Part terror, part pleasure, a writer’s life is complicated. Like a gripping adventure tale, it’s a pulse-pounding journey that never lets up, with danger lurking everywhere. It can set your heart soaring one minute and break it an instant later.
So why do we do it? In my own life, writing is how I make sense of myself and the world around me. I suspect it’s like that for many of us.
It was a golden November afternoon. I strolled across the bustling Mexican plaza in the Jalisco village where my husband Hank and I live part-time. Photogenic scenes were everywhere.
It was fiesta time and I immersed myself in the jubilant celebrations and felt the strength of community in the vibrant Mexican village. Absent, however, was an urge to photograph. The goodwill that surrounded me felt too precious for a bystander’s camera.