My brain floats down Yuba River.
Sure I could write that I went camping with my wife and kids along the Yuba River, got a tan, three days of rain, mosquito bites, snorkeling time, met fascinating Sierra County folk and stopped at Farrell's Ice Cream parlor on the way home.
Sure I could write - cue Sad Melody for Violin - that I didn't have enough money to pay conference fees and that I didn't win the WIP award.
Sure I could write about this poor writer who is down to his last quarter and has to decide between a can of tuna or a can of cat food. Four cats. Count 'em. Four.
Yeah, I could write about that.
Or I could write about the choices I made. The choices I made to become the Foreign Correspondent in the Northern Hinderlands. The choices I made to fall in love, get married and be a step-father. I could write about my car breaking down and needing to buy another car suitable for my new family. Finance payments superseded writer conference tuition.
I could write about the big gamble I took to write and suffer the slings and bank statements of this profession. The dice are still rolling.
I decided to jump in the river and float on an black, rubber doughnut. Two currents ran downstream to the shallow end of algae slimy stones. But a few eddies curled back upon the river and kept me in place, in case I wanted to paddle upstream, buck the rapids and go back to the beginning.
And start over.
I'll be back next year.