As an avid reader and a rather wistful writer, I’m constantly searching landscapes, towns and cities I visit for inspiration; or to catch glimpses of stories I’ve come in to contact with on the page, out in the real world.
I recently went to Mendocino, a quaint seaside village three hours north of San Francisco. It was blustery, cloudy and the fireplace smoked in my room. Rain seemed to pour down sideways. I could taste the salt of the grayness in the sky and the ocean, and every time I went in doors, I had to change my socks so as not to catch cold. Naturally, the combination of all these ‘elements’ only made me fall more deeply for this mystical spot. I’ve always felt a kinship with difficult people and places.
Walking along the Headlands at the tip of the town, it seemed like I was standing at the edge of the world, even when the wind was whipping my hair around my face, and it was difficult to see clearly. The horizon where the bluffs met the sky crackled with possibility. Perhaps it was this close tether to wildness that stirred my imagination, but it looked as if when I turned around to face the path, that I would see a shadow hunter or a Bronte sister strolling towards me.