Last week a letter arrived in the post from Wells Fargo. We regret to inform you, it read, that due to our inability to verify your address, your application for a credit card has been declined...
I'm a nomad of sorts.
Most of my stories begin the same way: "And so there was this guy...."
What?! Should I be ashamed of that? Ok maybe I am. A little.
But let's be honest, because the best writing always is: every story needs a MacGuffin; every adventure, an impetus. Even if the impetus is the same every time...in my case, an impeccably pecced man, usually blued eyed with darkish hair, an adventurous streak and some tragic flaw or incompatibility that invariably leads to our relationship-demise....and even if the ending strays wildly from whatever the initial focus happened to be, which mine, almost unfailingly, does.
These days I expect it to. I factor it in to the decision making process. Any associated heartbreak is merely collateral damage for the adventure I would never have otherwise encountered. And in any case, it'll make a good story, one day, when I'm de-chagrinned enough to tell it, right? Right.
I like to think of myself as a realist-optimist hybrid. I can be happy anywhere. Except the suburbs, Mongolia on a budget, and Tasmania mid-winter, sex-deprived and shivering, up to my shins in soggy mud. But most anywhere else, I can be happy. I crave change and dread boredom. I'm a romantic. But not a hopeless one...
And so, more times than anyone with any degree of self respect would publicly acknowledge, I've criss-crossed the planet, prompted by some vague notion of 'what-if?'
And by those gorgeous pecs, of course.
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