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.