I remember reading in my 20s a tome by a famous Russian that included a brilliant chapter about the cutting of crops. I can’t tell you now that my age has doubled whether it was The Brothers Karamazov or Anna Karenina or something else. The chapter went on and on, describing in exquisite detail how the men with their scythes swept over the land felling the wheat. I’m not sure one word of dialogue marred the perfect narration.

I knew I loved literature then, even had been writing for years, but I never would have called myself a writer. Couldn’t even conceive of claiming a neighborhood that was close to where that esteemed Russian writer wiggled his pen and created magic.

I still don’t think I’m on the same block, but today I claim the same zip code. And it’s because I understand that the characters I create are a landscape of a different sort. I can describe Lake Superior to you or the walls of a prison cell, but I’m much more interested these days in the intricacies of the hidden and blatent mind, in why the left eye squinches down tightly and the heart threatens to stop beating when a certain person enters the room. Their voices and silences are mountains and valleys in my head. Their tears are rivers and joy paints sunshine over the green, lush grass of their faces. And sometimes they cut down the ones they love most with the scythe they’ve sharpened on bitter fear.

This post was originally written November 7, 2006 for the private blog of my writing group, Novel-ties.