The Ties that Bind

I'm stuck here, in this place. I know I've written about it before and will do so again. It's a path at Butler-Greenwood Plantation outside of St. Francisville, Louisiana. I have the fondest memories of it, and now the memories have taken on a life of their own. I feel as rooted as the trees, as settled as the old bricks at the bottom of these steps. Memory feeds my work. I write best if I am writing through this kind of bewildering, because there is a vagueness to memories, yes a truth, but also a fantasy. This is born out of past experiences and present dreams. Maybe future hopes?

And I am living in that haze.

And I suppose that is what writing fiction is too, capturing this haze and passing it down to some reader.