How the mind of a writer works

Ending yesterday, The Boggy Creek Festival, is an annual event in Fouke, Arkansas. It started three years ago. Fouke is the place The Legend of Boggy Creek, an iconic horror film, was made in the late ’70’s.
It’s also the location of a fox pen where my late husband liked to fox hunt. Fox hunting, a sport not often practiced anymore, is not about killing the fox. It is about the thrill of the chase with the fox and the fox hounds chasing their quarry and both enjoying that chase. On a moonlit night, you can actually see the foxy grin on the animal being chased when he looks back over his shoulder at the pursuing hounds.
I liked to tag along on Morgan’s hunts. Usually I would wait at the camp in a small cabin and write. Sometimes I would step out by the fire to watch and listen to the baying of the dogs for a while.
Those woods surrounding me were quite spooky and often thoughts of the Boggy Creek monster, a sasquatch aka as bigfoot, would cause me to shiver and the hair on my neck to rise.
If I happened to be writing a romantic suspense, I would be truly frightened and retreat to the safety of the cabin. Indeed I have written such a book, Magnolia House, still available years after the print date with a shape shifter monster called The Loggy Bayou Monster.
Not as long ago, my writing partner and I would write a bigfoot horror script, Skookum: The Hunt for Bigfoot. An advance screening of it was part of those latest Boggy Creek Festival days.
This morning I was thinking of how we wrote it. And how I wrote the romantic suspense and a thought came to me.
It was about something often speculated about. Many have asked me. Just how does bigfoot, if he does exist, escape detection. Why has he not been found? Or seen, if you tend not to believe eye witness reports of people like my friend, Mike Wooley.
How?

Traveling writer

As I travel through the United States visiting with my adult children and grandchildren, I am so grateful to be able to do this. At each home, I have a different writing space. Here in Tennessee, I write in the library. It’s an old fashioned room filled with shelves of books and tables and a couch for sitting. I have a table for my laptop and best of all the wi fi is very strong in this room.

But instead of googling, sometimes tempted by the “real” books around me, I pull one of them out to find my information. As an older writer, I should be able to be old fashioned I believe.