All stories are about being human and all humans need a spot they can call home. More than shelter or status symbol, “home” is part of a person’s identity and many writers are known for theirs. Faulkner didn’t stir from Rowan Oak unless he was forced to. Daphne du Maurier’s obsession for Menabilly changed the course of her life. But both of these homes are grand houses of great estates, spots most of us could not relate to. So I traveled to Cross Creek, the home of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, a simpler structure if no less beloved. In fact, so much of MKR’s happiness and identity were tied to her home, she wrote one of her best books about it. And, from the moment you enter her gate, you can see both Cross Creek and the writer are cherished by those who remember them. City-bred, Marjorie didn’t flourish as a writer until she moved to the backwoods of Florida and Cross Creek is still off the beaten path. No disoriented tourists, adrift from Disney, will turn up at its borders. No major hotels or even gift shops entice explorers with the “Cross Creek Experience”. You have to look for the…