At six this morning, I am deep in the last-minute re-thinking of what I might say to a sizable audience of mixed-age authors and their families and friends on Friday in Wytheville.
I have not been able to get comfortable with my “commencement speechifying” and am reverting to a less formal, more conversational approach, as befits a “folk writer” like me. I am writing about writing, about story telling, about the unique events and characters and settings that come in and out of our lives that enrich our existence and our personal narratives.
And out of the revery of that deep pondering I am suddenly shaken by the dog’s resonant woofs from the next room, a more urgent barking than deer usually trigger, their object somewhere out the open windows that view the barn and pasture. Maybe this time, a stray cat, a bear, a coon or some other more unfamiliar intruder, I wondered, and got up from my keyboard to take a look.
It is our neighbor coming out of the woods, walking down our pasture road, south to north, just crossing the creek as I come to the window. She is wearing a white bathrobe.
There must be a story here. It is not mine to tell.
I come back to my work and pick up where I left off.