At such times I must be extremely cautious, for descending the mountain is nearly as arduous as ascending, in some ways more treacherous, for it is easier to slip and fall while descending than while climbing; one can crawl uphill (if needed), but one cannot crawl downhill.

In the brownstone on the river, a place of refuge rather more than a residence, still less a “home,” I quickly take notes in a fever of inspiration. (Of course, I do not think, inspiration. This is a word without meaning to me, though I believe it has some sort of sentimental meaning to you.) Too excited to stop for a meal, too excited to try to sleep, I “take notes” for hours, until I discover that it is past midnight, my eyelids are drooping, and my hand is aching, and exhaustion rises about me like murky water.

Usually, in time, an “idea” from the mansion will be strong enough to develop into a work of considerable length. Novella, novel. (Yes, the faded postcard from Janey became a substantial novel, one of my most elaborately plotted.)

But time is required for such an effort, as time is required for any growing thing to take root, send up shoots, falter into life, “flourish.”

However, if I walk in another direction, along the river, past shuttered mills and small factories, past weatherworn brick row houses, past taverns with neon signs burning in daylight like insomniacs unaware that the night has ended—my “ideas” are likely to be of another sort, on the whole less ambitious.

In town, my walking is not “hiking”—still less “climbing.” I keep a relatively fast pace, for walking slowly is maddening to me, fraught with peril, like riding a bicycle too slowly or speaking so slowly one is apt to forget the beginning of a sentence by the time one reaches the ending.

Also, if you walk slowly, you are likely to be seen as ambling, idling. You are likely to be seen as one who wouldn’t mind a stranger falling into step with you with that most offensive of cheery greetings—How’s it going?

Yet more offensive—D’you live around here?

Herrontown, Pennsylvania, is a friendly place. It’s a friendly place in the way that a tide pool reeking with algae is a friendly place. Nothing much is happening, and you can’t escape.

Yet Herrontown has “historic” significance. (Which is not why I am living here. I care for “history” only if I am writing about it.) Several skirmishes of the Revolutionary War took place in this part of the Delaware Valley, not far from Trenton, New Jersey. Often I find myself in the old city center—“historic” Herrontown Square. Near the eighteenth-century Episcopal church and churchyard. Near the Revolutionary War cannon and the monument to fallen soldiers of bygone wars. (The last war so honored is the Gulf War [1990–91].) Mourning doves scatter as I proceed along the walkway.