Why Writers Should Head Into the Woods
When I was about eight, my parents took my sisters, my brother, and me on a six week camping trip in a tent.
Yes, I said six weeks.
No, my parents had not lost their ever lovin’ minds. My father had a sabbatical, they were sick of the city, and they wanted out.
We all piled into our long black Ford. The Ford had an uncanny and somewhat creepy resemblance to a hearse, but we ignored that part.
We tossed in our dogs, Frisky and Alphy. Frisky bit people, Alphy bit dogs. They were both bad, odd dogs. The Ford, immediately, was in total chaos.
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Author Don Massenzio 