He'd moved north from Missouri. I wanted Peter to be my boyfriend. I wanted him to notice me. And so, I set about wooing him by writing him stories. Peter may have chickened out, but in the act of chasing him with pencil and paper, I discovered a bigger chase, the thrill of chasing anything with words.
Writing is a lot like driving a country blacktop highway on a hot summer day.
There is a wavery magical spot that shimmers on the horizon. You aim toward it. You look up to see it again, shimmering in the distance. You write toward that. I suppose some people might call this unrequited love or dissatisfaction.