This is Joel Quinby. I am writing you, the pilgrim, from a hotel room in Naples, Florida–sharing with you the wonderful gift of communication given to us both by our innovative predecessors.
What shall we invent? What can we contribute to the next generations? Well, being that I am a journalist, a writer, I will report to you what I see in the hopes that it might some day be remembered as some sort of strange testament to the times in which you and I lived.
Naples is a sleepy town which seems to sit, almost hide, in the lush trees and swampland that cover it in West Florida. It is something of a lost beauty, a secret getaway particularly for South Floridians who wish to abandon the stress of the city yet don’t want to make too long a journey. And so, this is the place upon which they seem to stumble. There is a beautiful beach, luxurious hotels and pools, friendly restaurants and people, and glorious sunsets. It all leads me to believe that there must be some catch.
Sometimes I wonder whether I write too slow. Is there such a thing? If what a man writes ends up being well-written, seems like it shouldn’t be much of a problem. The exception of course might be in a newsroom, which is probably why I’ve never been too keen on being a reporter.
What is it about Florida that appeals to so many writers? Is it the feeling of being in some exotic, tropical no man’s land? Is it the appeal of calm and tranquil ocean waters complemented by warm weather and lush vegetation? I have always seen myself spending my later years somewhere in the Mid-Atlantic region of the country–perhaps in D.C. or somewhere in Pennsylvania. Maybe I’ll end up like the Michael Douglas character in ‘Wonder Boys’, settling into a cozy little home somewhere in Pittsburgh to work on my magnum opus.