Baltimore is a little bit out of my way. Eight hours out of my way, to be exact, but a good friend and sister writer lives in Baltimore who really wants to go to the Baltimore Book Festival. When we she told me about it three years ago, it sounded like a great idea. I would take some time off work and come down a day early.
I had this dream of getting a train from Boston to Baltimore and writing the entire way down, sipping coffee, occasionally looking out the window to see the eastern seaboad whiz by, with nothing to interrupt me but the ticket conductor.
The universe, of course, had other plans. I'm in the middle of a major crunch at the day job, which makes the idea of a leisurely train ride more troublesome (I can't leave the day before so that I'll arrive in time), but I just can't beg off again.
So, Charm City, here I come, under my own steam, listening to audiobooks as I occasionally look up into the rear view mirror to watch the traffic behind me.
Author Morven Westfield comments on writing, vampires, the wildlife outside her window, and the writing life.
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