This is the title of the novel that I would write if I were to begin writing one this morning. It popped into my head in the kitchen, at 8:50, while I was feeding my cat and sipping a cup of bold Starbucks.
Since I do not write fiction (or at least not yet) and since I try to avoid sugar (although not too well lately) I haven’t the faintest idea why this would be the title I’d choose.
There is something down home and familiar about it though – again – no rational reason I can conger. Never heard of it, and as of the moment I can’t begin to imagine what life on Sugar Alley looks like. Wait. Stop. That’s not true. As I write these words I see a dusty dirt road leading to a rundown residence in rural America farm country. An old farmer (he looks old anyway, must be too much good living!) walks down the driveway where the road intersects, bends to grab the local Gazette and opens it to read the news. He’s wearing overalls, a flannel shirt torn at the elbows and a frumpy but considerable hat. He is content as he heads into the house to eat breakfast before tackling the fields of grain awaiting his attention.
And maybe that’s the point. He is content. In my story anyway. The more time I spend in my head (I am a writer after all) and the less time I spend in my body and heart, the less content I am. Or perhaps it’s more complicated than that, of course it is. Time to return to real life and continue editing my nonfiction memoir. Life on Sugar Lane notwithstanding. As I consider what the word balance actually means.
I often do the same thing! I’m good at thinking up titles for stories, but as far as what the story would be about….clueless. Your title takes me in another direction, something darker, with sinister undertones.
You are more imaginative than I, Celia.
If you ever find yourself with nothing to do, let me know and I’ll happily whisk you by the hand away to Never-Never Land.
That said, I hope the farmer is content. I really do.
But as we all know good and well, the American mid-west, despite its quaint outward appearance, often harbours deepest of dark secrets. Sure, this “Old Farmer” looks normal on the surface with his workaday, blue collar attire…but to echo a lesser known Blind Melon song, maybe he then retreats to the farm like Ed Gein once did and slaps that paper on his coffee table, which he lovingly constructed himself out of rib cages?
It’s worth thinking about, at least.
Or not, I don’t know. 🙂
That is a disturbing thought to wake to. If I must choose – I’ll take Neverland, please. I’m not a midwesterner, and I don’t know what they do, or do not, harbor.
But for the sanity of myself and my readers I’m going to figure most are not making ribcage coffee tables. I will now cancel any future trips I may have planned to the midwest.
I’m sorry I disturbed you so early. Next time I’ll wait till later.
That’s great, Wendy! I think I just found my “job.” You write your lovely organic novel and I’ll translate it into a genetically modified genre, entitled, “Life on High Fructose Corn Syrup Avenue.”
Okay, if you must, Stephanie. But I like my title better!
So do I. Natural is always the way to go!