Last night I imagined writing a story that began with the character’s death and slipped backward slowly event by event arriving, finally, at the defining moment that shaped the character’s life.
It would never work though. Desire is the unknown. It is the discovery of places you didn’t know enough to imagine, even if those places look a lot like home. It’s the subtle differences, like climbing to 8000 feet without canyon walls. The mystery of that place to which you have not been.
All the rest is just academic exercise.
Which is why we’re currently heading north west toward Rawlins rather than burning the up the road outside of Wheatland. Neither the ETA nor the prettiness of the drive decided our route.
It was simply this: We’ve been further up I-25 than we have 287. They mystery hides along the slow road, and so that’s the one we’ve taken.
Shullamuth Ballinger 