He read some book, and somewhere between the eighth and ninth chapters, he realized, if he wanted to stand out, be different, he should mine the region he grew up in, tell the stories from there, even if he’d been gone so long it didn’t feel like home anymore.

And they didn’t have mines. Not then. Trees and their pulp and the mill that worked those things. It smelled terrible when the wind blew the wrong way.

In the book, it was clear. The geographic area made the person made the stories come to life. But it wasn’t that easy.


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