A Writer’s Confession

Although I truly love where I live (city and neighborhood), I have this recurring dream of moving into a cabin in the woods.

The cabin, as I envision it, is close to a wide stream that runs year-round.

But here’s the part where the confession come in: I want my cabin in the woods by the stream to be close to a major medical center.  Not because I have some deadly disease (knock on wood) but because I’m paranoid about health.

In my mind, moving into that cabin equals writing great literature. Cause we all know the greats throughout the ages have lived in exotic places where beauty abounds. Or so I like to tell myself.

You know, I have a super laptop that I could take anywhere to write – overlooking the Pacific, in a hip coffeehouse down the street, in a little cabin in Idyllwild, which is less than three hours away from me. I have the capacity to write anywhere. So why is it that I stay stuck on my desktop machine, in my apartment, looking out the open front door down onto the patio and a large ficus tree? Why am I not sitting on the banks of the Mississippi, in Scotland, or that old Victorian town in Washington, Port Townsend?

I need to figure this out because I love to see the world, meet new people, learn new things. Why am I so stuck in this one place?