Holed up in a cabin near a lake in the deep woods on the North. A weeks worth of rations, a carton of cigarettes and enough coffee to fortify a month of mornings. Lock yourself in and write. Write all the words down and don’t come out until there are three hundred pages.
What would that even look like? Is it just the romance of the idea that captivates? Three hundred pages. A full book. Twists and turns and dead end streets. Walks in the woods with the dog as a stimulant for the mind. Couldn’t one just as well wrote the same thing in the confines of one’s own home? Why the need to escape? Make the date. Commit to the commitment. Just get out of your own way and make it happen. No circumstance is going to make it happen any faster?
Stop
Walk a mile in the shoes I have on and then you can come up to my desk and ask for the keys to my car. You have a lot of nerve asking for something that you never worked for and didn’t earn and you have no respect at all if you can’t even respond to the boundary. A simple fence was put in place and the posts and the rails very clear so as not to be disturbed and you can’t muster up enough common sense to respond with any kind of acknowledgement as to how you upended my peace of mind. There are a million miles of beach just waiting for you and your knuckle-dragged fists.
Bikes. They aren’t going to make you smarter, but they can take you to places where you can definitely learn.