Writing is a solitary act. What happens between a writer and the page is personal. My kids tease me about going down the rabbit’s hole when I go downstairs to write, but it’s a pretty accurate description. With each step, the real world recedes. The laundry disappears, the grading disappears, the grocery list disappears. Copper Bluff comes into focus, and I am there again in Em’s bungalow, Dickinson at the porch window switching her tail.