In June, I officially wrapped up my 34-year career as an educator. I spent the last 14 of those years exactly where I belonged, serving as the school librarian at Skokie School in Winnetka. Retirement was just the first domino. Erica and I decided to lean fully into our favorite mantra: Carpe Diem! We sold our house, parted with roughly two-thirds of our belongings, and moved into a lovely apartment in downtown Kenosha.
I am naturally an introverted guy. When I retired, I thought I was fully prepared (even eager) for a sudden lack of human contact. Without a school bell schedule to anchor my day, I started walking my new neighborhood. I was not looking for a grand community connection. I just wanted to get some exercise and learn the grid of my new downtown home.
The Art of Looking Closely (and Speaking Up)
I began wandering my new backyard armed with just my iPhone. I was not walking for speed. I was trying to get to know the place better.
As I walked, I started taking detailed photos of heavy cornices, thick wooden doors, and rusted fire escapes. That is when I stumbled onto something that truly spoke to me. I have always been enchanted by the beauty of 1930s WPA National Park screen prints. I admire the way they encapsulate a massive landscape using just a few key colors. There is a calm brutalism to them. They distill a subject down to its absolute bones.
What started as an unpremeditated excuse to get outside quickly blossomed into the Greetings from Kenosha project. I realized I wanted to know the stories behind the cream city brick and the mortar. More importantly, I wanted to know the stories of the people who walked through those spaces.
To uncover those stories, I had to risk my introversion. I had to pull open heavy doors and actually talk to the people keeping these local landmarks alive.
I cannot overstate how delightful these conversations have been. Every time I stepped out of my comfort zone, I was met with an incredible reception. Business owners have shared their grand visions for their spaces. They have pulled out hundred-year-old, silver-gelatin photographs of their storefronts for me to study. Some have taken me on behind-the-scenes tours of hidden rooms and spaces the public never gets to witness.
Wandering Is Writing
Recently, a reader left a comment on my latest Substack dispatch that brought all of this into focus. They wrote, "Any one of these stories would make a great next book for you."
That comment hit me like a ton of bricks. As writers, we often trap ourselves into thinking that writing only happens when we are isolated at a keyboard. We believe it only counts when we are actively increasing our word count. The truth is much broader. Wandering, observing, photographing, and listening to people's stories are the very foundation of the writing process.
When I trace the history of a forgotten harbor basement or run my hand along a century-old brick wall, I am not taking a break from writing. I am gathering the raw clay. I am world-building in my own backyard.
If you are feeling stuck in your current manuscript, close the laptop and go for a walk. Take a camera. Even the one on your phone will do the trick. Look closely at the way the light hits the buildings you pass every day. Push past your comfort zone and talk to the people inside them. You might be surprised at how quickly the narrative threads begin to weave themselves together.
Next time, I will take you behind the scenes of the technical side of this project. Building an interactive map and visual table of contents for Greetings from Kenosha using the Antigravity IDE required the same trial-and-error mindset as plotting a novel. Stay tuned.
