One writer’s statement that has really stuck came from fellow ex-Montana writer Ivan Doig.  He mentioned how sweet it was to live in the anonymity of the suburbs.  That might sound counter intuitive at first, especially for authors wanting to become known.  The anonymity there proves a real blessing for a writer.  You have neighbors, but they really don’t know what you do.  Most do not know your full name, so you, your work or obsession with writing are really left alone.

They think you are another regular bloke bringing in the groceries, mowing the lawn, carrying in the mail, and because this is the NW, watching the roof moss slowly but surely devour your shingles. True, your ears may have to endure the occasional garage band start-up that plays scream therapy music or endure barking dogs, but,  for the most part, you are insulated, blissfully lost in the burbs where only your words can find you.

Uninterrupted, I thought of Ivan’s words when I carefully carried out and mailed my latest baby or manuscript swaddled in a big U.S.PS. flat rate box.  The baby enjoyed a many-year gestation period, and was born two weeks before the contracted publisher’s due date.  It was a great feeling.  Burbanites had no idea of what was going on.