Tag: water

Where I’d Like to Be Right Now

I’m sitting at home again today, cowering in the air conditioning because “it’s going to be another hot one,” in Midwest parlance. I’m listening to playlists that help me concentrate, hoping they’ll inspire me to finish the last three chapters of Carrying Light.

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There’s a list of where I’d like to be right now:

  • At The Elms, enjoying time in the Grotto;
  • At Broadway Cafe in Kansas City with noise in the background;
  • At Wild Horse Pass resort in Arizona having a drink in the swimming pool;
  • In a cabin at Mozingo Lake, on a writing retreat;
  • Sitting on a couch anywhere that doesn’t encourage slouching;
  • At a cat cafe, self-explanatory;
  • In a camper at Mozingo Lake, just because it would be different;
  • At Starved Rock State Park, except for all the crowds.

Where I do not want to be:

  • OUTSIDE.

Fixing a Problem with the Story

Sometimes, when writing, I have to talk with my husband about plot points.

“What happens if the rural water goes out?” Richard sits on the couch with his phone out.

“Rural water will not go out, or else lots of people die.” My solution. I believe the water infrastructure isn’t likely to go out for a while, but when it does, the town will have trouble fixing it for a while. Unless the power goes out, and fuel for generators becomes scarce.

“But the collective is going to be prepared for it, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know how. They have less than a week to prepare for it. How are they going to prepare for it?” I type “Where does Mahomet IL get their water?” and I discover Mahomet is sitting on top of a massive aquifer that belts the middle part of the state of Illinois. In fact, it’s called the Mahomet Aquifer. “There’s an aquifer, but I don’t see the collective drilling a well in one week even if they can find someone with the equipment.”

“They could do the pioneer thing and dig it themselves.”

“Eighty feet? How do they get back up?”

“A rope.”

“In a week?”

“Wait a minute. Don’t they have a 100-year-old farmhouse on grounds?” This is where my husband remembers the setting of my story better than I do.

“Yes, but — “

“I would bet that farmhouse has a well.”

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“So all they need is piping. And the parts. Lots of pipe and joins, tied in to the water tower — they should have a water tower, right?” (Why didn’t I think of this before?)

“They definitely should have a water tower.”

In my mind I’m painting the water tower because I’m easily distracted. I pull myself back to the current discussion. “Oh, but then we could put the municipal filter in so the water is clean. Hope they can get this done in a week*.”

* They don’t just have a week to refit the well. They have as long as they need because I am the author.