By Where, oh where, has the fiction writer gone? On trails, up mountains and through rugged days.
The hike seemed to go on forever. One hundred miles of forever. From Milngavie to Fort William. Rain, cold and hard paths. And Laura and I had forgotten how much scrambling over rock was involved.
It was our second time. Drip, drip, drip. Whoosh. Splash. The wet wind in our eyes. One foot in front of the other. Eyes up or on your bootlaces. We’re gluttons for this.
Forget about warm offices and comfy desk chairs. The West Highland Way called me to adventure once again.
On the trail, you never know what to expect. Just expect that–anything. It’s just like writing. I’m twelve thousand words into a novel. I don’t always know where I’m going with that, either.
No road map to a conclusion. I’m twelve thousand words in, as I’ve said. Can’t turn back. The trail doesn’t let you. And I have a 60,000 to 80,000 word count in mind. That will end Book 1 of several. Outlines? Outlines are for publishing agents.
So what kind of book is it? Inspired by such rugged beauty on the trail, it’s a fantasy. With elements of horror, the story, so far, has been an adventure of its own. I keep writing. Several characters with different goals. In a haunted world that’s something akin to a medieval setting. Magic and mayhem soon to evolve.
Writing a novel seemed daunting. I worried that it was beyond me, having written only shorter stories. But I’ve gone further in than I already imagined possible. I can do this. Patience. There’s an end to this trail. Just one proverbial foot in front of the other.
