I enjoy a somewhat Thoreau-like existence, living in a cabin in the Adirondack woods about a mile from a small town. This frugal, fairly self-sustaining lifestyle means plenty of physical labor and ample quiet time for writing. Like Henry David Thoreau, I foolishly thought my immersion into nature might shield me from political matters. I tried to expunge such thoughts by chopping wood but soon found my axe needed grinding.
My world had changed; the forest seemed less attractive, the mountains less appealing, my prose less worthy. As Thoreau wrote, “I dwelt before, perhaps, in the illusion that my life passed somewhere only between heaven and hell, but now I cannot persuade myself that I do not dwell wholly within hell.” » Continue Reading.