I come from a rather obscure part of New Zealand, and I've never read anything set there except my own work. Love of that place, or at least my memories of it, is part of what inspires me to write. To quote from an essay I wrote a few months ago:
Quote:
My father-in-law died in November 2009, aged 89. Right till the end his mind was sharp, easily able to recall stories from his childhood. A few years ago he visited the valley for the last time, and came back to the city full of how much it had changed. The land has been carved into smaller blocks, and some of the remaining bush cleared. To top it off, there’s now a sealed road with (this was expressed in awed tones) “A white line painted up the middle!”
I can’t go back to the valley, because “my” valley no longer exists. But I can return in imagination whenever I want.
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