Writing Connects Us in Ways Daily Life Can’t
I’m closer to my writing friends than my “real” friends
This past fall I took my annual trip with the guys to camp in the woods.
That trip has always been one of my favorite weekends of the year. Nobody asks anything of me for three straight days. I get a break from the rigors of family life and get to catch up with some old friends.
But this year felt different.
While we did a whole lot of sitting around staring at the fire, none of us had any earth-shattering new developments to share. We hadn’t gone through any major life changes that needed the support of a few old friends like we had in our 20s and 30s. These days we’re all pretty established in our lives, and relatively comfortable in our own skin.
We sat around for almost three days doing almost nothing. We took a little hike or two, threw some stones into the lake, and took a nice break from the stresses of life. As nice as it sounds, I found myself wondering how many more years we’d be doing this trip. Now in our mid-40s, how long do we want to “rough it” for a weekend? Did we want to keep sleeping on the ground and sit around discussing our increasing litany of old-age complaints?
