Act Three

What could be more trite than a writer moving to Vermont?  Triter still, moving into an old farmhouse?  I get it.  I’m aware that the north woods host almost as many writers as white-tailed deer.  What then should I do?  Should I stay clear of this state simply because so many other novelists, poets, and scholars have found Vermont inspiring?  Should I recoil from the risible aspects of a city boy finding this rural state’s landscape remarkable, its history intriguing, its mix of solitude and social engagement congenial?  I don’t think so.  Or, more to the point:  no.  I need this place; I want it; I feel no need to ignore it.  All the better that Edith, too—herself a writer and a musician—finds Hyland Hill at once reassuring, uplifting, and delightful.

Truman Capote:  “Life is a play that tends to have a poorly written third act.”

Well, then:  all the more reason to write a good third act.

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