In the Appalachian Mountains at the higher elevations snow isn't that unusual, cold temperatures in those winter months, and wind that'll move your trash can to the next county. In the cabin, between Mt. Wilson and Coosa, the glow of a large LED screen with Scrivener at the top and the narrative below front light a lined and cheery face of someone who has cheated the odds and now tells lies about what was then when everyone, but granny, was young.
Sky High is a place where a writer works in a loft surrounded by stacks of things that might have been books. Now proofs of what will be ebooks on the internet, maybe. During the days and nights, outside, there is enough wild life for just about anybody. Rabbits, possum, brown bears, and squirrels aplenty. Where summers are for cuttin' and splittin' wood, for the cold months. The porches are for eating lunch and supper in the mountain air when things are good. On those rainy days the porches give a wide view of the downpours. In between all that, writing of things that might have been, could have been, and would have never been. Fiction is to writers what alcohol is to drunks, a little taste is never enough and writers often write to excess.