the seventh sense

I am settled, and must extol fervently on the wonderful city of Wilmington. It is truly amazing. I love the water, and being in a town with rivers, lakes, marshes, and the ocean is heavenly.

I am rereading a book that I have read several times merely to become immersed in the setting. The book is Belinda, by Anne Rice, back when she was writing as Anne Rampling. This time around I am noticing things I never did in my previous reads (and to think that there are those who scoff at the idea of rereading a book). Particularly in how Rice develops as a writer. The sense of place in her books is always central - to the way she writes, to the way the characters interact with each other and their surroundings, to the development of the story itself. Before I moved, when all my books were packed, I picked up a spare copy of Interview With the Vampire. In thinking about these two books, and the way setting is central, and keeping in mind my favorite book she's written to date (The Witching Hour), it suddenly became clear to me how Rice took those early elements and fully implemented them into The Witching Hour. New Orleans culminates in that book, breathing heavy fire, and smelling like a salty whiskey drink. In short, she doesn't just create a city, she invocates it into living in her pages. Considering New Orleans today, those books may wind up being more important than Rice or any of her readers ever dreamed they would be. Perhaps one could even say her books would preserve the fundamentals of the old New Orleans the way Fitzgerald is often credited for saving a fraction of the 20's with The Great Gatsby.

Sense of place...It is more important than it is given credit for. In books, in life. There is a sense in this city of vitality, and health. Of the way a clear glass of water can taste of the earth when all other senses are stilled.

one week

This time one week from now I will be in my new town, in my new place, utterly exhausted from driving and unpacking the rental truck. The very yellow rental truck.

I already have a deadline for a piece of writing, and the deadline is very soon. I am rather apprehensive about it actually. I thought that I would have more time to contemplate what I wanted to write...I don't actually write nonfiction...But apparently my time has come.

I am slightly worried. As in, freaking out.

The house looks strange with all my pictures off the walls, the mounds of boxes tucked into corners, and a half arranged furniture design that screams "garage sale refugee."

I have work tomorrow. I am ready for the summer to be over.