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James Mortimer Phillips is the main character in Shady Place. He just wants to be left alone and eventually die in peace.
Since his wife passed, he’s been a solitary man, one who just wanted to wallow in self-pity in his suburban Philadelphia home, but his daughters wouldn’t have it.
They forced him to move to Florida, to the 55+ community he and his wife had picked out several years before: Shady Place.
Jim is a candidate for the class superlative of “Most Likely to Yell: Hey you kids, get off my lawn!” just before turning the hose on them. A retired detective, he can’t help but get involved in events around him even when he tries to bury his head in the sand.
Shady Place is a neighborhood you are likely to find neighbors standing around in front your house. Active and lively, a veritable Peyton Place. Never a dull moment. The perfect landing spot for a curmudgeon who longs for isolation.
What happens when Jim and Shady Place collide? Shady Place the novel is born.
Call it procrastination. Call it deviation…digression…distraction. No matter how driven a creative person is, there comes that time when there’s something else, anything else you’d rather do.
It’s a strange phenomenon when you literally feel bad if you aren’t writing, but at the same time would rather do anything else in the world. And here I am, technically I am writing this post, but in reality I’m not working on my next piece. In a few minutes, I’ll tell myself it’s too late to work on it tonight, so I’ll just go watch TV in bed.
What is one to do? Fight the urge of course. Even when you don’t want to write, you do it. It’s like writer’s block, you have to fight through it. The problem isn’t missing one day; it’s making it the norm. You miss one day because of circumstances, it’s ok, but then you miss another and another and another until it becomes the norm.
That sounds serious. Maybe I should get back to work?
On second thought, I’ll do it tomorrow.