A Place to Write — in Summer

I am grateful to have a place I can escape to in the summer where I can sink my teeth into whatever I'm writing and ignore all else. The mountains above LA are many degrees cooler than the valley and the sleepy roads are a peaceful respit from the 405 and the 101 freeways.

Classic Car Show in summer in Wrightwood

Mmm mmm.

Here's an excerpt from The Ghastly Year written up at the cabin one summer; the high school graduation ceremony from 15-year-old Sniedze Krast's point of view:

Chapter Forty-Three

Sniedze Krasts scurried along behind the Leopoldses, aiming to reach the high school’s massive wooden doors before the boogeyman got him. Commencement exercises were held every year in a big echoing auditorium with stained glass windows that reminded him of church, a worrisome notion since church was outlawed. Mr. Leopolds sat down in the audience area with a few other parents, but Sniedze felt like a heel sitting with the oldsters, where other kids might think he had no friends, so he tagged along backstage behind Jekabs.

Expectancy bubbled backstage, Sniedze noted with a snort of disdain, as if the graduation candidates thought in an hour they’d suddenly turn into adults. They tittered like fledglings about to fly, complete with mushy sentiments and inside jokes. Sniedze never had anything to say to Jekabs’s peers, who were two grades above him, though he longed to jump into all the small-talk chatter with a ripping clever line. His knees knobbed from between his shorts and tall socks like white signposts saying, I’m an idiot! He lowered his newsboy cap over his eyes.

The Wrightwood Brew Co. is at the top of the village.

Sunflowers hanging in the cabin, oil painting by Kārlis Smiltens,

A redhead with sculpted wavy hair and her blonde friend came over, practically throwing themselves at Jekabs, who seemed to take for granted how well his suit fit as he hugged them.

“Jekabs! I would never have survived trig without your help!” the redhead said, batting her eyelashes. “Am I ever going to see you again?”

Dog days of summer.

The girls were a stupefying swirl of perfume, gloves and curls, in dresses dipping down nearly to their ankles. In their stacked heels, Sniedze could barely see over the crest of their corsage-stuck bosoms. He didn’t know where to look.

 “Jekabs, you’re here! I was afraid you were missing too,” the blonde said. “Half the class is gone.”

Sniedze looked around at where half the class should be, stomach churning.

“I almost didn’t come either,” the blonde said, “but who knows when we’ll see each other again. Look at this.” She pushed a scrap of handwriting under his nose. “My mother and I came home to an empty house and this note.”

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