I’m renting a cabin near Pickwick Lake, where Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama touch. I’m here by myself to finish writing this book—to focus. The cabin is a one-room A-frame with a little back porch that overlooks a deep hollow.
Rather than waking up to the Rock 103 deejays, early morning bird songs get me up. I’m not chasing new business throughout the day; squirrels are chasing each other across the tin roof. And at midnight, instead of police sirens, packs of coyotes yip in the distance.
It’s been nice to be alone, focusing on my writing. But today, I need to get out of this cabin and on the water to write. There are two reasons for this.
The first reason is practical: It’s March and I need to take half a day to make sure our ...