I am in a small room with a peaked roof. The walls are all white, and the roof is covered with the red clay tiles that they use here in South India. Right now the family is cooking over a wood fire outside, and it’s smoking really badly and it has crept up under the roof until the house is full of smoke. My eyes are burning.
I am sitting at a simple wooden table with my computer, drinking a cup of coffee. I have my small electric burner over here, so I can keep making cups of coffee whenever I feel like I am going to fall asleep, which seems to be my body’s response to the great strain of so much creative output. I am trying to write a whole lot today, since I spent yesterday on the scooter, trying to get all the rent money for my landlord. It’s never easy to get a lot of money here, and he wanted it for the remaining months that we will be in Goa. Something about a loan that he needs to pay off, something with high interest.
The room where I write fiction is an exhausting place; fun, but full of hidden caverns that I might fall down into and never emerge from. Parenting seems much simpler, in contrast. I’m glad I can return to that world, when I am done here.