John never thought he’d live in the middle of nowhere, had up until a half a year ago no idea people lived without municipal water, and that thanks to a eco-conscious previous owner, his entire house was powered by wind and solar. Still, a house, four hundred acres, and neighbors who could, as far as he was concerned, fight a small-scale war without his even hearing a peep had its benefits, such as a going price of a year’s rent for his previous one bedroom apartment with a view of a fire escape. He didn’t much care for the land, and would have sold it to his neighbor instead of renting grazing rights, if he’d asked. The house was enough, with a nice view down to a small river, which was apparently the hotspot for counties around to go floating.
He’d momentarily caused a small stir in the nearby town, if a few buildings along a road could qualify. At first, they seemed to have some reservations about a famous big-city writer moving in, and after the first few unsuccessful attempts, John gave up on trying to explain that having one book published and barely managing enough sales to justify a second book didn’t exactly qualify for famous. In fact, he hadn’t the heart to admit to the rest of the town, but they were perhaps the only group of people who had given his novel about the tragedies of living and loving in a big city any consideration. That they had utterly missed the point and concluded he’d written an indictment of all that was wrong with urban society annoyed him, but also seemingly endeared them to him, so he let that slide in favor of social harmony.