That's Hermann Hesse paraphrased in the title of this post, just to give the author his due...
I've been thinking about home quite a bit lately. The one I came from, the one I went to, the one I have now.
The North Country haunts me; how could it not? The setting of The Long Black Veil reveals some of my ambiguity about where I grew up, though in the end, the fictional town (Ballantyne) is truly a composite of many towns small and large that institutionalize a quiet racism while pretending morality.
The setting for The Pirate's Bride is even further north, and colder, its desolation as much a part of the tale as the characters. That bleak winter landscape leaves its mark on the people who live there and who have witnessed its unique frozen beauty. It's a fascinating hell.
And though I lived there for eight endless years, it's highly unlikely that I would ever set a story in Oklahoma. I'm sure many people feel at home there, but I never did. The lessons I learned there brought me back East, though, so I am grateful for the knowledge gained.
Maybe someday I'll write about where I live now, though this place does not entirely feel like home either. Maybe I'll never have a true home, except perhaps in the pages of my stories. Or maybe home is less about place and more about a person in whom we find peace and understanding. My husband has given me that.
And maybe that's enough.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment