The story that I am writing travels across the country over a long period of time. It first wanders west from New York at the turn of the century towards the mountains and continues over the decades to wind itself back and forth in various ways. A lot of the story takes place in the in between, the middle of this country. While I have driven between the East Coast and Colorado over ten times I can’t say that I really know the prairies or the rolling hills. I think I have a crush on the prairie. In the two months that we have been out here I have found myself pulled more and more in that direction.
Today Alder and I took a long circle through the prairie stopping for a late brunch and a little bit of thrifting. But mainly we drove and looked. Actually he slept and I absorbed. Right now the prairie feels like a deep sigh after listening to too much news or a spark of lightening. I know they don’t match but they are simultaneous feelings. If Alder had been awake or I had been alone I would have stopped in each town and at some other spots that I was curious about. But for now I have to be satisfied with my driving and observing.
In terms of story I don’t need to understand too much about the life of the people who live on the prairie, only enough to have them populate the theaters and street scenes. But the land itself is a character, a taunt for one character as he tries to find his way to the mountains, the ones he saw once in a newspaper story about Theodore Roosevelt at age nine and has been trying get to ever since.
It amuses me that I am falling in love with the “bad guy” of my story.