Hey. I’m in Las Vegas airport waiting for my connecting flight to San Francisco/my new home, which is very weird concept. Not sure if that’s because I’ve been moderately homeless in recent months or if, well, it just isn’t home yet. I don’t even have a bus route yet.

But I have a job and new sheets and an elderly roommate. And so I guess now it is my home…

Anyway, I haven’t been writing as I’d hoped to, but I have been tearing my book to shreds in my mind. In a good way. In a way that, I know, makes the story better, but only illuminates how much work I still have to do on this story.

I figure that writing a book is like doing a puzzle. At first, you just put the puzzle together in the easiest way possible. And as soon as you finish the puzzle, someone tells you you have to do the puzzle all over again in a whole new way. So you have to set about rearranging everything as if you’d never solved the puzzle in the first place, but you still want to come to the same puzzle in the end.

So now I’m rearranging my puzzle. It’s a lot to do, but I feel my excitement mounting all over again. It’s almost as exciting as it was when I’d first thought the whole thing up. I’m dreading the work, but I fall more in love with this puzzle every day.


Back to America

Well, the European adventure has come to an end. I’m sitting, feverish out of my mind, in the Newark airport trying not to let myself remember the monstrosity they fed me on the plane under the ruse of lunch.

One adventure down. Back to the American Wanderjunk.

Dublin was fun (more so than I think I typically have). Stepped off to Galway yesterday and managed to hook my awkward British friend up with a sunburn (too British to handle… Who gets a sunburn in Ireland?). Goodbye Dublin! Goodbye Scotland! Goodbye friends and bedmates! Goodbye loud hostels!

So now I get to start my moving and starting school stress (ok, with a bit of roadtrip and DC fun thrown in for good measure). Oh god… I’m going to have to get a job again. And an apartment. And a commuting plan. And…

Sigh… Extended vacation can’t last forever. Are you sure? Why not?

Ok… This makes very little sense. I am sick. And back in America. You really must forgive me.

Day Twenty: Drives

Spent the entire day in the car today driving back to my cave of solitude. Everyone always looks at you like you’re such a nice little martyr when you drive a long way, like it was some sort of terrible torture. In a way, I get that. You’re literally imprisoned to a seat in a car under a certain speed limit. But, honestly, I never feel so free as I do when I’m driving.

I love everything about it–driving super-human fast, no traffic, down a wonderfully twisted road. Granted, I-10 is straight as an arrow, but there is nothing better than setting the cruise control, cranking whatever horrible music you don’t have to share with someone else, and just going as loud and fast as you can.

I always get some of my best thinking done during transportation. Planes, trains, cars. You have to be alone though, other people are the key to drowning thoughts. This is how I started all of my best stories: alone on the road.

It’s, weirdly, nice to be back in my quiet little nest. The extended weekend was wonderful, but if anything it proved that I was right to leave. I miss the people I left in New Orleans terribly, but isolation is what I need now. This is where I should be in order to work. Not forever, but for this project. Everyone asking me to come back made me feel as though what I am working on is possible in their company, but it really isn’t. I need to be alone with my thoughts (and other age-old writing cliches).

Also, writing doesn’t keep a schedule. It’s like I can’t run a 9-5 on this. Sometimes it’s more like a 2am to 7pm. Or a very solid half-hour in the middle of dinner. Writing doesn’t care when the boyfriend gets home from work or what time I told everyone I’d meet them at the bar. Those commitments are how you miss writing.

I know it might sound crazy, but I think socialization has become a luxury I just can’t afford much of anymore. Or maybe isolation is the luxury and I’m too consumed by it to currently look back?