When I left Minneapolis two years ago, I was sure I was never going back. Oh, I'd go back and visit - I had friends there, and good ones, after all. But I'd already lived there so much longer than I'd ever planned (in my head, I was supposed to have left after graduating from law school), and I hate the cold and I firmly believe that snow on the ground for six months of the year is an excessive amount.
Gentle reader, you know where this is going: I am moving back.
In, oh, about a month.
I am excited: Part of the reason I am moving back is those previously mentioned really good friends. I'm going to be writing, just writing and jumping into a freelance career is the adventure I've wanted, but it is also very much a jump. So I am also a bit scared. And it's the good kind of scared, not the "Oh dear God, what new Lovecraftian horror lurks in the basement?" sort of scared, but still.
And in the next thirty days I have to finish teaching my classes (including the grading, speaking of Lovecraftian horrors) and pack up the house, and find a place to rent, and then get on the road and reverse the trip that I made almost exactly two years ago at that point.
It feels, oddly, like going home.