I'm a writer...not a farmer
We’re finally doing it. We’re picking up and moving to the country. My husband is beside himself with excitement at the prospect of living on a farm…he’ll have fourteen acres to work with…and he’s already picking out baby chicks and planning what to plant. He has wonderful dreams of taking his crops to the farmer’s market to sell, and being completely self-sustainable in the event of a zombie apocalpse. I couldn’t be happier for him.
Well…until he mentioned this little thing about me helping him out there.
Umm…honey? Yeah, I’m a writer, not a farmer. I’m the girl who flees the rays of the sun, screaming like a vampire on spring break. I will write you a story about a farm. I will fawn over baby chicks through the glass, and make pitchers of lemonade from the safety of the great indoors. But I will not be driving a tractor in the midday sun through a field ripe with bugs, and snakes, and things that buzz around me like I might be lunch.
No…I’m definitely not cut out for the simple life.
I’ve decided we’re living out that old 60s sitcom, Green Acres. My husband is ready to flee the big city, and I’m ready to go shopping. I’m wondering where the multi-screen movieplex is. I’m searching for the Barnes and Noble…the closest one just happens to be a over an hour away…few miles from where I live now.
It should be interesting. At least I love the house. And I can imagine myself writing amazing stories in the eighty year old farm house with a basement torn straight out of The Ring.
I suppose I’ll survive…as long as I have cable TV and a WiFi connection.
Thank goodness my best friends in the whole wide world are never more than an internet connection away.
I’m going to be spending a lot of time online!
Until the next time…I’ll be packing!