Outsiders

Cows Sometimes it’s hard to know where you are until you’ve been somewhere else. I’ve been on a ranch for ten days in Montana and just got back to L.A.  I love to be home, but no matter how much I’m telling my students (and you) to wake up and pay attention, take notes etc., the fact is that I go through a lot of my life on automatic pilot.
When I got home yesterday I had no small talk.  I wanted to be back on my horse. I wanted all those miles of space without a car in sight.  I wanted to hang out with people who say "You bet!", and when I walk into a store ask me, "What do you need, hon?"
The three newspapers that arrive at our door in Santa Monica every morning have more information than anybody could possibly read or need to even think about. My friends and family all seem to be going at a different speed than I am. Stressed.  Busy.  Crazed.
This morning I drove the Santa Monica Freeway to downtown and then took the 110 up to Pasadena and though I’ve been driving this route for years, the whole trip seemed a little risky to me.
But I realize that writers need to be outsiders, especially where they’re most at home.
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