The Forest of Stories
Wilderness whups ass. No one is exempt. Ice cracks. Frozen lakes overflow. Bears charge down steep slopes. An inflatable raft springs a leak. A critical box of supplies gets left behind. WTF: where are the matches? Predators large and small are afoot. As are swarms of the most bloodthirsty of all: mosquitoes and no-see-ems. Weather doesn’t care about your flapping rain-fly or your groundcloth pooling with water.
X Marks the Tale
As I work on revisions of WHERE THE RIVER IS A ROAD I find myself thinking of the origins of stories. I consider the maps embedded in those narratives. The short memory piece that follows refers back to some of the early collective stories I experienced. It is the visceral sketching out of a house in the cold sand, the rendering of a scary story map, that compels me.