On California

There are a lot of books written about California. What’s up with that? Why are so, so many stories and artists transfixed with this one place? What’s so good about it? I have a hypothesis.

I grew up in Indiana. If you’re having trouble picturing Indiana, imagine a piece of paper that has been colored green. Now you can picture Indiana.

Since childhood, I’ve had the opportunity to live in a few different places. The Piedmont region of the Carolinas, a mountain pass in the Rockies, and now the Pacific Northwest. All are places that put effort into being full of splendor.

I haven’t yet lived in California, but I’ve been led to believe that California takes the best parts of these places and makes them better. Adventurous coastlines, verdant valleys, lush rivers, golden deserts. Indeed, gazing on the Sierra Nevada mountain range from a plane stirred such an emotional response within me that it brought me to the realization that I would marry V. California’s very geography overflows with mysterious hints at something grand, something transcendent.

California allows for dramatic rendering. Valleys cut, peaks soar, rocks jut, vegetation consumes, waves crash. The land itself could be a character, as dynamic as the people. The land itself lends itself to a story.

Indiana, in comparison, is passive. The land doesn't do things, the weather does. Wind sweeps, snow dumps, cold destroys. The only notable battle with the land was a finite skirmish, and that terrestrial terror is long dead now that we have learned how to trick farmland into peaceful service. Only the most talented authors can set a story in this wasteland (unless they take advantage of the Mississippi River). 

You live on Indiana. You live in California. Among it. With it. 

I know which I'd write about...