What am I doing out here in the middle of the desert?

Simon, my four-legged sidekick, and I have patrolled the shores of Moses Lake recently, during our regular walks, with one thing on our minds. How did we get here?

No, this is not a letter in which we tackle why we're alive and all that heavy stuff. Neither of us really cares about that. After all, Simon is a beagle. For him that's a simple question. He's alive for walks, treats and a half cup of food twice a day.

No, we just want to know why we're in Moses Lake.

The first part of the question is simple. We couldn't find an apartment in Ephrata.

I work in Ephrata, and it would have been nice to live there, or Soap Lake.

We really wanted an apartment with a splendid view of the famed Soap Lake lava lamp, glowing through the night, and serving as a beacon to travelers from around the world.

"Oh, you're from Paris?" I might ask, legs crossed, sipping tea at the Caffeine Couch, with Simon curled into a ball nearby.

"Yes," the Soap Lake tourist would say.

"Who cares about a silly tower, though," he would say a bit later. "We need a giant lava lamp."

We thought it would be great if the apartment had a slider door that led to a patio with fancy lawn furniture. The patio would lead to a bountiful salsa garden. The tomatoes, peppers and cilantro warmed and fed by the sun by day. And warmed and loved by the lava lamp by night.

But, as I said, no apartments. And, unfortunately, no lava lamp.

The rest of the "Why are we living in Moses Lake?" question is a bit more difficult to answer. After all, we had a comfortable life in Spokane.

Well, apparently, I wanted to be a journalist. I thought it would make me happy. I won't tell readers all the naive and idealistic thoughts that led me down this career path. However, I will give one example. Hunter S. Thompson, the "Gonzo" journalist, appeared to be on to something good.

But after 15 months working as a journalist, I know one thing for sure. Thompson was unemployable. Any journalist who misses deadlines, turns his body into a chemistry experiment, runs for sheriff or walks across conference tables during conferences is immediately fired. So there goes all the fun, right? Well, I think so. Maybe?

At this point I had Simon write a list of what's left, after the fun's gone.

Well, I began as he scribbled away, the deadlines constantly remain, for one. The criticism and competition are always here. Simon and me take fewer walks. (I had to add the last one because I knew Simon was going to add it anyway.) I'm always asking people questions that start off with an apology, like: "I'm sorry, I don't know anything about this, but I …" Finally, I realized, the writing remains. Ah ha!, that's it, the writing remains.

So, we came to Moses Lake so I could be a writer. And being a writer turned out to be a lot of hard work.

Now ironically, I can't imagine being anything else. Every day, or every sentence for that matter, is another opportunity to improve. And that's what I like most about it.

I would compare it to golfing or fishing.

Being a golfer at my level can be frustrating. But the feeling you get hitting a great golf shot keeps you coming back to the course for more disappointment and frustration.

Spend some time fishing and you soon realize it's the catching that we really enjoy. But we all do more fishing than we do catching.

In a nutshell, that's writing. And being a writer out here in the desert is as good as any place.

Anyway, I had to be something. As for Simon, he will always be a beagle. And being a beagle seems to work well anywhere.

David Cole is the Columbia Basin Herald's county reporter. Simon, 4, is a 13-inch beagle.