I went home the other day. It's really not that far for me. An extended trip from the everyday. By home, I mean less the actual building where I grew up, but the area that I love so much. We, and I still to this day consider myself part of it, are those that live on an island, connected to the mainland by a thin bridge that skips over vast, troubled, rushing waters. If you want a euphemism for life then this one is very apt in description. You see... when I cross that thin bridge... I take a deep breathe, my heart rate slows, and a wealth of long dormant emotions filter through every cell of my body. It's a quiet hum that reverberates long after I've trudged back across the bridge. Sometimes, for days the feelings continue, making me feel like a boat tethered with a finite rope to the shore.
The title from this blog is the title from the compilation of letters of Ruth Moore, put together and edited by Sanford Phippen. I claim a distant relationship to her, since originally we hail off the same small Gott's Island, Maine. Her's was a direct line. Mine took generations and miles to get to me.
At her height, she was a New York Times Bestselling author, whose book Spoonhandle (published in 1946 by William Morrow & Co) was made into a movie. She was a steady writer, and prolific. She would take as long as it took to write a book. A contrast to today's "need it now" urge to feed the populace. And she wrote about the places and people she loved. She understood them to the point that they became so real it was as if we were gossiping about a relative. And the places so loved that we felt as if we were coming home.
I've spent some time on my current book, looking for just the feeling that I want to put into it. I didn't have that emotion that would make the reader understand the choices of the characters. I think I do now. Perhaps, it's in that finite rope tethering to shore that will hold them, the readers, til the end.