I’m living in Provincetown, Massachusetts, this month: right on the tip of Cape Cod, and sometimes it feels like the tip of the world. I’m here to write, because it’s in this artists’ colony that I feel my most alive, my most creative. And what better place to write a novel about a young woman who finds herself living in the dunes for a few months?

The books that I brought with me map out my required knowledge base: World War II Day by Day (the novel takes place in 1942), The Best War Ever, Beston’s Outermost House, Art in Narrow Streets.

And then, last Saturday, what had started out in the Carribbean as Hurricane Noel and “transitioned,” to use the Weather Service parlance, into a powerful nor’easter, hit the Cape. And while I was safe in my third-floor eyrie overlooking the harbor, we did lose power for a time, and there were some very frightening moments.

And in those hours of rain hammering on the roof and wind lashing at the windows, I didn’t want to read about Cape Cod birds. I didn’t want to read about World War Two.

I wanted familiar words, soothing words, the words of an old friend. And in my efforts to be oh-so-focused on my own writing, I found that I had brought none. None of my favorite authors was there to sit with me through the stormy hours, to hold my hand, to encourage me, to allow me to lose myself in their words and slip into their reality and –– as I say in my book — fly away.

It’s a cautionary tale, people. On Sunday I trotted across the street to the library to remedy the situation; but I of all people should have known. Even traveling, even when you live in many different places, as I do, choose your companions and allow them space, always, to be with you. You won’t regret it.

– Jeannette Cézanne
http://www.JeannetteCezanne.com