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Friends, Italy was unusually wet, but it wasn’t bad enough to dampen my spirits in Rome, Florence, and Venice.1 Most of my time in Italy was spent working, though at night and on my free time, I found myself doing what I love: drifting alone through the crowds, with a camera, observing. I know writing about the traveler as flâneur is a bit tired these days, but I also can respect the fact that not all travelers enjoy or experience solitary walks in foreign places....
Friends, Last month, I all but ignored the narrative section of The Hill of the Skull (which I’ll refer to as THOTS below) and turned my attention to image editing and sequencing. In photobookland, image editing doesn’t refer “image processing” using software like Photoshop and Lightroom. Image editing is the tougher job of selecting images. I came back from the Andes with over five thousand images. Three thousand of those photos were taken in Quillacollo during the time period that corresponds with THOTS....
Friends, After some helpful comments from Reader 3 and Reader 4, I have finished Draft 15 of The Hill of the Skull (which I’ll refer to as THOTS herein). The story/essay/travelogue/memoir section now has around 7,100 words. The story feels like it is going in the right direction, though it is deeply personal and ends on a dark note. This all feels right — but I must say that I am also feeling a bit vulnerable, not just because of the personal nature of THOTS but also because of the public nature of the crowdfunding campaign....
Dear mediums who commune with the spirits of place, Each morning, before the sun comes up, I lace up my shoes and go for a long run. This morning was no different: I put in an earbud, clipped a can of pepper spray to my shorts in case Cujo was on the loose again, and I set off into the humid, fog-filled morning. Like walking, running is usually a creative time for me....
Dear mediums who commune with the spirits of place, As I sit at my desk and revisit my notebooks and photos from the Hill of the Skull, the memories of that strange place rush back to me. They bewitch me into a kind of impassioned trance, a rapture. Florida’s lower altitude ensures a lower resting heart rate, and yet my heart fluters as my notes and photographs transport me back to that dusty mound in the foothills of the Andes....