There are lots of decisions to be made when one is moving, apart from the obvious. You need to sell your place, of course, and you need to find one you like. And have enough money left over to do both. Beyond that, I am discovering the move is also touched by one of the secret and continuing issues in my life – this question of celebrity. From the start, I have been guided to secluded, private off the road homes. Everyone in town, including my realtors, thought I was crazy to even consider the first house we looked at, right on a road in open view. It is assumed I need a secret hideaway, as some famous writers demand. It is also true that homeowners negotiating with me think I am rich, and are they in for a surprise.

The second house we looked at and liked was, in fact, secluded, invisible from the road and snug in the woods. I don’t think we need that.  I think we have found a place we both really like, but frankly, it has been suggested by more than one person that this farm is not nearly secluded enough for somebody as famous as me. People are shocked we are even looking at it.  Realizing that this has been a factor has surprised me, but I can tell you the idea that I am too famous to live in the open in a congested area really blows my mind. It is not so, not in my mind.

I have never once thought of myself as famous, not even when I a movie was being made of one of my books, and three different stalkers calling me up and e-mailing me. And surely not now. I am not nearly famous. In my town of 2,000 people, I am a minor celebrity, but most people here have never even heard of me. George Clooney is famous. Brad Pitt. Not me. Last week I ran into a farmer who asked me what I do for a living and I told him I write books about dogs and other animals and rural life, and he nearly spit out his gum laughing. They pay for that, he asked?

There is great drama associated with the idea of the writer, the reclusive, agonized, solitary figure holed up in his cabin tortuously cranking out great books. Writer’s retreats are all about hiding from the world, and some even hold that writers ought to have food brought to them so that the real world doesn’t intrude on their sacred space. One of the things I love about my life is that if I suggested that my wife bring food to me, I would be wearing most of it in a flash. I write surrounded by dogs, donkeys and chickens clucking and braying. And I shop and cook, happily. My wife, much as I love her, is not what you would call domestic.

I am much drawn to an old vintage farmhouse on a busy road in full public view. It has a funk old barn and a great studio for Maria. It is close to a town, a restaurant, a used car dealer, all in sight. It is close to the road also. If I move in this neighborhood, there will be lots of things to photograph and write about, including a farm. I have to live on a farm, I know that now. Farms are magic for me.  I do not feel the need to be protected, nor do I think I am enough of a celebrity to need seclusion behind gates. The big thing for me is can I have a donkey door put into the barn where I want to write, so I can achieve my dream of Simon sticking his head in like Mr. Ed. Now, that horse was famous.

I can guarantee you the farmer down the road has heard of him. If you are driving down the road, and see a tall, balding man who walks with a tilt and walks around with a donkey and a halter, honk and wave. That will be me and Simon. Now he is famous too.