Sitting on my parents’ porch surrounded by the darkening autumn woods at sunset, writing my novel while the aroma of my dad’s amazing chicken chili begins to waft from the kitchen. Chirping crickets and softly-hooting owls occasionally interrupt the languorous rush of the water in the creek down the hill. I can hear rustling in the leaves by the creek; I’ll bet it’s a raccoon.
I love visiting my parents.
(It doesn’t hurt that they’re also incredibly cool people.)