Why I love to suck

Saturday marked the second stop on the Crazy 8s Author Tour in Cannon Beach, Oregon. The next time I think it's wise to commit to two consecutive weekends of book tour driving at cities 400 miles apart, will someone please punch me in the crotch?

Now that we've got that out of the way, I'll say I've very much enjoyed being part of this group tour. As the lone romance author in a group of 28 writers ranging from poets to award-winning literary novelists, I sometimes feel like the chimpanzee crashing a party of swans.

This was apparent Saturday when two authors preceding me devoted their five minutes to discussing cancer, child abuse, and historical massacres. I kicked off my five minutes by squealing – literally squealing – about being introduced by Barbara Roberts, Oregon's first and only female governor and my longtime political idol. Then I launched into my five minute talk dispelling myths about the romance genre, a speech I begin by calling audience members perverts, sexual deviants, and lonely spinsters living in a fantasy world.

I capped it all off by handing my penis pen to a respected poet and asking him to sign a copy of his latest book.

But speaking of sucking (we were, weren't we?) I listened raptly to every word my fellow authors uttered during their five-minute talks. In her talk about the challenges of the writing process, author Ruth Tenzer Feldman said something so wonderful I snatched my penis pen back from the poet and scribbled the quote on the back of my own speech:

"Some of the words are no better than guano, but they serve to enrich the words that come after."

She was discussing the importance of continuing to write, even when it's rough going or the words flow slower than frozen KY Jelly. It's one of the toughest things for new writers to wrap their brains around. Why on earth would you keep writing when you know for certain you're producing absolute drivel?

I love Ruth's take on it – the notion that the crap fertilizes whatever crops you're planting after that. Though I love poop humor as much as the next person, I tend to think of my own lousy writing more like a skeleton. It's not too pretty to look at on its own, but it needs to be there so I can start adding layers of guts and skin and hair and sex organs.

I've seen other authors describe this as, "embracing your suckage" or "giving yourself permission to suck." Whatever you call it, it's an important part of the process whether you're a poet or a governor or a romance author prone to inappropriate public behavior.

How do you allow yourself to suck, either as a writer or in another professional capacity? Please share!

And if you're in Oregon, please mark your calendar for Friday, September 28 at 6:30 when the Crazy 8s Author Tour will make its way to Paulina Springs Books in Redmond.

On souvenirs, poop jokes, and regrets

The kickoff of the Crazy 8s
Author tour in Baker City, OR.

Friday night's first stop on the Crazy 8s Author Tour went phenomenally well. Pretty much.

My gamble of calling audience members perverts and sexual deviants to kick off my talk about stereotypes in the romance genre produced the desired laughter. My jokes about hating another Crazy 8s author because his book wasn't released yet fell a bit flat.

No matter, there are more tour stops coming up, and I have a few more opportunities to pull my head out of my butt  improve my approach.

The best thing about signing on for a multi-stop book tour spanning far-reaching corners of Oregon is the chance to explore areas of the state I've never visited. This is a hard concept for people in smaller states to grasp. You can drive across many east coast states in a couple hours. To cross from the Oregon coast to the eastern border of the state would take you about nine hours and nearly 500 miles of driving.

Though I've lived in Oregon for most of my 38 years, I had never spent time exploring the northeast part of the state. The Crazy 8s stop in Baker City was the perfect opportunity to see areas like Wallowa Lake on the fringes of the state's largest wilderness area, and Hell's Canyon, the deepest gorge in North America (don't think I missed a single opportunity to make deep gorge jokes).

The new theater chair in our home office

My gentleman friend and I stopped in charming small towns along the way, pausing to explore antique shops and quirky little art boutiques. In one shop, we discovered a seat that had been rescued from an old theater and lovingly restored by an artist. My gentleman friend – who has a master's degree in theater – was smitten. He'd always wanted to own an antique theater chair, but this wasn't a splurge he'd budgeted into trip planning.

"You know the number one thing I've learned about traveling over the years?" I asked.

He smiled. "Check to be sure you aren't in someone's driveway when you pull off on a deserted gravel road to get frisky in the car?"

I splurged on a memento of my own.
Earrings made from real pennies
stamped with the word "lucky."
One penny is from 1997, the year
I moved to Bend, Oregon.
The other is from 2006 – the year my
gentleman friend moved here.

"Right," I said. "That too. But one thing I've learned is that you never walk out of a shop after purchasing a travel memento and think, 'I wish I hadn't bought that.' But if you leave to think about the purchase and end up forgetting, you'll always, always regret not buying that souvenir."

It's absolutely true, and the reason nearly every piece of artwork in my house has some special meaning from a trip I've taken. It's also true of life in general. I'm a whole lot more likely to regret the things I don't do than the things I do do.

And now I've gone and ruined this post with doo-doo humor.

Do you find your regrets tend to center more around things you haven't done than things you've done? When it comes to travel, do you ever regret souvenirs you don't purchase, or are you the sort to go crazy with the credit card in cute little shops? Please share!

Oh, and for the record, not every travel memento I bring home costs money or requires purchase in a shop. My gentleman friend's casually-snapped photo of me wading in Wallowa Lake will be taking my breath away for years to come.

Does this book tour make my butt look big?

I sat down yesterday with my calendar to find a date that might work for a short road trip with my gentleman friend.

It soon dawned on me that my schedule is jam-packed with author-related travel in the coming month.

Then it dawned on me that I probably ought to let readers know about it in case you'd like to attend any of the events. That seems like a better idea than dragging strangers into the venue by their hair and tickling them until they either pee or agree to stick around and listen to me talk.

A few months ago, I was asked to be part of something called The Crazy Eights Author Tour. Actually, I saw the word "crazy" and said "I'm in" before I had any idea what I was being asked to do. For those who care about the details, here's a blurb for the tour:

The Crazy 8s Author Tour is the brainchild of author George Wright. His idea? A group of Oregon writers will celebrate the written word throughout the state. The result? 8 Towns, 8 Bookstores, 8 Events, and 28 amazing authors.

Did you see that? They called me amazing. Well, not just me. I guess there are other authors involved, including:

• Alison Clement
• Anne Jennings Paris
• April Henry
• Barbara Roberts
• Bill Cameron
• Brian Doyle
• Eliot Treichel
• Ellen Waterston
• George Byron Wright, 
• Gina Ochsner
• James Bernard Frost
• Jane Kirkpatrick
• Karen Spears Zacharias
• Lauren Kessler
• Linda Crew
• Molly Gloss
• Naseem Rakha
• Phillip Margolin
• R. Gregory Nokes
• Robert Dugoni
• Robin Cody
• Ron Lovell
• Ruth Tenzer Feldman
• Sarahlee Lawrence
• Sid Miller
• Tawna Fenske
• Ursula K. Le Guin
• William L. Sullivan

We aren't all going to be in the same place at the same time, which is unfortunate since I'd love to just follow Bill Cameron all over the state in hopes of having some of his awesomeness rub off on me.

Note to self: When sharing your fondness for male authors, try to avoid using the phrase "rub off on me."

So back to the tour.

Here are the dates and locations I'll be visiting:

Betty’s Books in Baker City, Sept. 14


The Crazy 8s Author Tour opens at Betty’s Books in historic Baker City, Oregon. Appearing will be Ruth Tenzer Feldman, Tawna Fenske, Gina Ochsner, Anne Jennings Paris, Eliot Treichel, Ellen Waterston, Karen Spears Zacharias, Anna Keesey, and George Byron Wright.

Cannon Beach Book Company, Sept. 22

With Haystack Rock as our backdrop, we visit the Cannon Beach Book Company, which celebrated its 30th anniversary in 2010. Appearing will be Ruth Tenzer Feldman, Tawna Fenske, James Bernard Frost, Lauren Kessler, Sid Miller, Barbara Roberts, Karen Spears Zacharias, R. Gregory Nokes, and George Byron Wright. 

Paulina Springs Books in Redmond, Sept. 28

 

Stop number three on the Crazy 8s Author Tour is in lovely Central Oregon at Paulina Springs Books in Redmond. Appearing will be Ruth Tenzer Feldman, Tawna Fenske, Sarahlee Lawrence, Naseem Rakha, Anna Keesey, Ellen Waterston, Karen Spears Zacharias and George Byron Wright.


If you live near one of those areas, I'd love it if you came out and said hello. Or if you don't live in one of those areas but you feel like flying across the country so we can have a pillow fight and braid each other's hair after the event, that's cool, too.

Either way, it should be lots of fun.

And, um....kind of exhausting. I'm looking at about  24 hours of round-trip driving between those three sites. Anyone want to volunteer to be my chauffeur? 

I'm getting leid

Each year, my parents spend several months on the Hawaiian island of Kauai.

Though Pythagoras and I've have traveled all over Hawaii ourselves and even visited Kauai a couple years ago, I've never gotten to hang out there with my parents. They're forever scheming to find ways for me to visit them, but the stars never seem to align quite right. Either my work schedule won't cooperate or there's a book deadline looming or I just can't find enough change between the sofa cushions.

But the stars have finally aligned.

As you read this, I'm probably on a plane bound for ten days of blissful sun, sand, and fruity drinks with hunks of pineapple anchored on the rim.

The timing is perfect, with LET IT BREATHE off my desk and no pressing deadlines to tend to for the day job. Since temperatures are in single-digits outside my house right now, I'm in desperate need of a little warmth.

I may or may not blog while I'm gone. I'll try to post a picture or two, and if you follow me on Twitter, I'll be using the hashtag #gettingleid.

I'll also still be blogging in my usual Friday slot a The Debutante Ball, so be sure to stop by today and see what I had to say about typos.

In the meantime, I pledge to have a mai-tai in honor of each of you.

Wait, how many of you are there?

Never mind. I'm up for the challenge.

Does "pervert" sound the same with a Southern accent?

If you're reading this with your morning coffee in hand, there’s a good chance I’m on a plane.

Actually, there’s a better chance I’m sleeping on the floor of the Chicago airport (the result of some wacky overnight flights and long layovers). Don’t kick me if you walk by.

This little trip started out simply enough. With tons of frequent flyer miles and a fairly flexible schedule, I decided to journey to south Georgia to meet up with longtime critique partner Cynthia Reese. We've swapped manuscripts, moral support, and recipes for 6+ years. It's about time we met in person.

Things snowballed from there. When I realized several other writer pals resided in the same region, I cobbled together a series of three-legged flights and long layovers that allow me to meet up with Harley May and Elizabeth Flora Ross (both of whom I know from Twitter) and my hilarious agency sistah Linda Grimes. I'm now undertaking a week-long trip with stops in three different states.

The whole thing fascinates me. If you'd told me a year ago I'd be traveling 3,000 miles to hang out with four women I'd never met in my life – three of whom I'd never even heard of at that point – I would have assumed you'd been drinking too much Chianti.

After I asked you to pour me some, I would have considered how wise my agent may be in her suggestion that I hurl myself into the pool of social media.

She is wise – having this blog and spending time on Twitter has been an amazing opportunity for a no-name, debut author like me to build a little momentum for my book release.

But more importantly, it's given me the chance to make some really amazing friendships. Real friendships, the kind worth flying clear across the country for with the slight risk my "friends" might turn out to be 300-pound serial killers with a fondness for collecting dead authors' lingerie to sell on eBay.

Assuming I survive and get to keep my underwear, I'm going to think of this trip every time I hear an author scoff at the value of social media like Facebook and blogging and Twitter. Those pursuits take time, no doubt about it. But the rewards are worth it in ways you probably can't begin to imagine.

On that note, it's likely my blogging will be sporadic next week. I'll do my best to post a photo or an amusing little anecdote if I have time and an internet connection, but I make no promises.

In the meantime, you can follow my journey on Twitter under the hashtag #southerntweetup. You can also stop by The Debutante Ball today to hear my take on all the buzz surrounding the release of The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown (one of the other four authors making up this year's Deb class).

Oh, and if any of you are at the Chicago airport between 4:30 and 8 a.m. Friday morning, will you wake me up in time for my next flight?

Making car rides entertaining with minimal risk of arrest

The drive from my home in Central Oregon to the Emerald City Writers' Conference in Seattle is 7-8 hours each way. Even broken up with a pit-stop in Salem to see my parents, that's a helluva long time to be in the car with nothing to amuse me but the occasional glimpse of a passing motorist picking his nose.

This is where audiobooks come in handy. Pythagoras and I first borrowed one from the library about ten years ago on a drive to Nevada where traffic is so sparse we didn't even have nose pickers to amuse us. We listened to James Patterson's KISS THE GIRLS and cracked up every time the narrator dramatically growled "tick-cock."

Since Pythagoras' daily commute is less than two miles and mine is a flight of stairs down to my writing computer, we don't really listen to audiobooks during the week. Still, they do come in handy. Two years ago, Pythagoras accepted a temporary job in a town 2.5 hours away. We spent 10 months living in different places and visiting each other on weekends (a lovely way to celebrate your 10th year of marriage).

I credit audiobooks not only with keeping us sane on many late-night drives, but also with exposing me to books I might not have read otherwise. I was curious about Barbara Kingsolver's ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE (a memoir of a year spent deliberately eating only food produced in their town) but knew it was one of those books that would never rise to the top of my to-be-read pile. I found it on audiobook and spent several memorable car trips pretending Barbara was sitting there in the passenger seat sharing my bag of Doritos and reading me her story.

For this trip to the Emerald City conference, I've loaded my iPhone with several selections to make the miles pass quickly. It's got me wondering whether my books will ever be done in audio format. I looked at my contract this morning just to see if it's mentioned, but I got bored reading and only managed to confirm that the phrase "audio rights" is indeed in there (along with about 8 million other words that make me very sleepy).

The very idea blows my mind. I listen to Cynthia Nixon reading the Emily Giffin novel currently in my player and think, "could she someday be reading the Strip Battleship scene from MAKING WAVES?"

Probably not, but the thought amuses me even more than the nose picking thing.

Do you enjoy audiobooks? If so, are there certain books you'll listen to while reserving others for reading yourself? How do you think it changes things to listen to a book instead of reading it yourself? Please share.

I'm busy cracking up at the thought of Cynthia Nixon uttering the line "Oh baby! I want to rub your cheese doodle 'til my hands turn orange!"

Packing it all in

I take pride in my ability to travel light.

I can journey around the South Pacific with just a small backpack to hold all the clothing, toiletries, camping equipment, and snorkel gear I need for an entire month. I can’t remember the last time I checked a bag on an airplane, and I’m a pro at washing socks in hotel sinks to avoid packing that extra pair.

So could someone please explain why I suddenly think it’s necessary to have six pairs of black shoes for a three-day writers’ conference?

I tried to justify it by reminding myself there’s fourth day in there for a “librarian speed dating” soiree the night before the conference, but it’s unlikely the organizers will require me to change shoes four times during the event.

Seriously, what the hell am I doing?

It’s not just shoes, either. I’ve caught myself tossing in sweaters and blouses, skirts and slacks – enough stuff to clothe every conference attendee if we all decided to gather in the lobby and get dressed together.

In my defense, it’s my first writers’ conference. I’m still a little uncertain about weather conditions and clothing trends or the possibility we’ll be required to switch outfits once an hour like celebrities at a televised awards show.

I know I need to go through my suitcase this morning and get serious about weeding things out. Still, what if I get there and find I just can’t leave the hotel room without my pink sweater? Or my blue one? Or my black skirt? Or—

Are you an over-packer or a light traveler? Does it vary depending on where you’re going? Please share.

I’ll be busy eyeing those jewel-crusted stilettos that lace up the leg. Maybe I still have room in the suitcase…

Places that twist your tongue

This was the first summer in nearly a decade that Pythagoras and I did not get on a plane and journey to some exotic foreign locale. Instead, we agreed to spend time exploring our own backyard.

Once we got tired of spying on the neighbors and stepping in dog poo, we broadened our travels and set out to explore some other Oregon locales we hadn’t seen for awhile.

An unexpected benefit of this sort of travel is that we didn't have to learn to pronounce new cities. Instead of bumbling the pronunciation of Essaouira, Morocco or Moloolaba, Australia, we boldly shouted the names of familiar places like Sweet Home and Seaside and Newberg.

We were both born and raised in Oregon, so we probably have an unfair advantage when it comes to pronunciations here. That’s not always the case for visitors.

I was at a concert once where the performer made the mistake of telling us how glad she was to be in “OREY-gone.”

The crowd would have reacted more kindly if she’d slit a puppy’s throat onstage and then peed on the carcass.

They booed. They chanted “OR-uh-gun! OR-uh-gun! OR-uh-gun!” Someone threw a pack of gum. I swear I saw the guy next to me pull a switchblade.

Mispronunciations like that aren’t limited to the name of the state. A friend told me about a time she and some pals journeyed through the coastal town of Yachats. When a debate broke out about how to say the name of the place, the camps were split between YAH-hots and YEAH-chats.

Outside intervention soon became necessary, so they pulled in at the local ice cream parlor and approached the cash register.

“Excuse me,” said one of the guys. “Settle a bet for us – how do you pronounce the name of this place?”

The girl behind the register studied them, then frowned. “Dairy Queen.”

I’ve been thinking about this a lot this summer in light of the fact that all three of my contracted novels have ties to Oregon. Most of the places I describe are easy to pronounce, like Portland and Dundee and McMinnville.

Others might prove more challenging for readers unfamiliar with the region. How about the Willamette Valley? It’s the setting for the make-believe vineyard in LET IT BREATHE, but I’m certain at least one reader will stumble over its pronunciation.

Fortunately, a recent visit to Willamette Valley Vineyards outside Salem took care of this problem for me. I think this clears it right up, don’t you?

Are there places in your books or in your state that are tough to pronounce? Do you snicker at out-of-towners who trip over the words? If you’re a writer, what do you do to make sure your readers know the correct pronunciation of your settings?

Please share in the comments. I’ll be busy trying to figure out how to set my next novel in Garibaldi. Or Scio. Or Yoncalla. Or—

The power of poo

I’m not a terribly spiritual person, but I do have one very deeply held belief I cling to above all others. It is my belief in Dog Doo Karma.

If you own a canine companion, you know what I’m talking about.

For those without four-legged friends, the principle of Dog Doo Karma dictates that all humans shall clean up their furry friends’ canine landmines. Do so, and your shoes and soul shall remain poo free.

Fail to do so, and the universe will make sure you get what’s coming to you.

Pythagoras and I have the utmost respect for Dog Doo Karma, and travel everywhere with little doodie baggies tucked in our pockets. Even if we don’t have a dog with us. Even if we’re dressed in formal attire or swimwear, you can pat us down and find baggies.

But we had a momentary, regrettable lapse last week. We were visiting the Oregon Coast near Warrenton, and as we trudged along a desolate stretch of beach hunting for sand dollars, our dog hunched up performed her duty.

I looked one direction, then the other. Not a soul for miles and miles.

“Maybe we should leave it,” Pythagoras said. “The tide’s coming in, it’ll be gone in a few minutes.”

I hesitated. Did we dare tempt Dog Doo Karma?

But we were planning a long hike, and the thought of toting a smelly baggie for several hours didn’t hold much appeal.

“I’ll just make sure no one will step in it,” I said. I found an empty crab shell and used it as a makeshift scooper to fling the business out to sea. The seagulls were delighted. The dog was angry she wasn’t allowed to fetch it.

We looked around. No one had witnessed the sin.

We continued our walk, with the dog racing ahead and Pythagoras lagging behind in search of sand dollars. Maybe an hour passed. I had almost forgotten the incident when I heard a colorful string of curses behind me.

I knew without turning around what had happened.

Well, not exactly what had happened.

To protect your delicate sensibilities, I shall refer to the substance in question as peanut butter.

“First I stepped in this huge pile of @#$% peanut butter,” Pythagoras snarled as he did a one-legged dance to get his sandal off. “Then I lifted my @#$% foot and a big chunk of peanut butter fell off onto my other sandal. Now I’ve got peanut butter all over my toes and under my foot and—”

I tried very hard to be supportive. Apparently “supportive” does not include falling down in the sand laughing hysterically as your spouse drags one foot through the water and scrapes the other with a stick while the dog dances around waiting for the stick to be thrown.

Finally, Pythagoras got cleaned up. Our mood was somber as we continued down the beach.

“So the Dog Doo Karma got us,” I said.

Pythagoras glared at me. “Us?”

“I feel your pain,” I told him solemnly.

“I could sense that from your maniacal laughter.”

So do you believe in Dog Doo Karma? What about other closely related beliefs like Shopping Cart Karma and Last Square of Toilet Paper Karma?

Please share in the comments. I’ll be busy burning my husband’s sandals.

Poor Pythagoras tends to his poo-covered sandals while the dog assists.

By the seat of your pants

Monday afternoon, I had an unexpected urge to visit the Oregon Coast.

Since we live 4 hours away and it’s the middle of tourist season, you might think the trip would involve some advance planning.

You’d be wrong.

Within an hour, Pythagoras and I were in the car with one haphazardly-packed bag and one confused dog. We didn’t make hotel reservations. We didn’t know which towns we’d visit. We didn’t even remember to pack dog food or deodorant.

Bindi enjoys the ride.

But the trip was incredible. 36 hours of beautiful scenery, unexpected adventures, and good conversation.

On the beach in Florence, OR

This is pretty much how I write. Authors call this being a “pantster” (short for "seat of your pants") as opposed to “plotter” (those amazing souls who don’t regard outlines as tools of Satan).

There are advantages to both methods, and trust me – I’ve had moments I wished I could try the other method as both as a writer or a traveler. People who plan ahead probably don’t spend nights sleeping in a skirt on the floor of an airport delirious with fever from a bacterial infection contracted in Morocco.

Are you a pantster as well? Or maybe a plotter who’d like to let your hair down and try being a pantster? Here are three tips for both writing & traveling by the seat of your pants:

Don’t panic. There will be moments you realize you’ve backed yourself into a corner with your story or your journey. It’s all part of the experience.

While traveling in Europe, we hopped a bus to Slovenia without considering what we’d do if the bus dropped in the middle of nowhere without access to a telephone, computer, or ATM. For a few minutes, Pythagoras and I assessed one another while considering which of us would fetch a higher price on the black market. Fortunately, we kept our heads, shouldered our packs, and hoofed it a couple miles to a post office that kindly swapped our Euros for Tolars and pointed us to a pay phone. Slovenia ended up being one of the highlights of that trip.

It’s been the same with writing for me. When I set out to write MAKING WAVES (my debut novel) I knew I wanted to write a sort of pirate parody. I didn’t stop to consider the difficulty in setting an entire novel in the confines of a 45-foot ship. That challenge forced me to develop some twists in the final third of the book that are now my favorite parts of the story.

Choose travel companions wisely. I packed for Monday’s beach trip in about 30 seconds, so I may have neglected a few essentials. Like a toothbrush. Or a razor. Or deodorant. Since Pythagoras also forgot the latter, he ran to the store for the deodorant while I helped myself to his razor and brushed my teeth with a cotton ball stolen from his bag. (Incidentally, nothing says true love like sharing deodorant).

It’s the same thing with writing. Plotting is not my forte, so I made sure to nab two critique partners who are masters at it. When I get stuck, I can email either one and whine, “my heroine got drunk at the hero’s male strip club – now what?”

Take the scenic route. My favorite thing about writing and traveling as a pantster is the chance to discover new things. Our trip home from the beach yesterday involved a meandering drive through several small towns. Along the way, we saw a gorgeous covered bridge in Sweet Home and a pair of large mammals copulating at Sea Lion Caves.

Nookie at Sea Lion Caves.

Weddle Covered Bridge in Sweet Home.

Same deal on the writing front. I had no idea when I started writing LET IT BREATHE (the third in my contract) that the story would include pink-haired biker grandma or an alpaca who head-butts men in the gonads, but those are now among my favorite features of the manuscript. Use your pantster experience to try new things. You might be surprised at what your brain comes up with.

Are you a plotter or a panster when it comes to writing or travel? What tips can you share for making your method work? Have you ever tried the other method just for fun? Please share in the comments.

I’ll be over here shaking sand out of my shoes.

In which I maturely do not say "hump" despite mentioning camels

Yesterday, the FedEx man brought my new iPhone.

I’ve never owned such a miraculous device before, and I sat for an hour gazing at it in wonder.

I showed it to Pythagoras when he got home. “See how shiny?”

“It is,” he agreed. “Do you plan to turn it on?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Does that require candlelight and soft music, or will I need to rub it?”

I’m only half kidding, because the fact is, I hate reading directions. Maps, too, are a mystery to me.

This is a key area where I differ from my husband, who would cheerfully consult a map to navigate his way from our kitchen to the bathroom.

When we were in Morocco a few years ago, our guidebook suggested that Marrakesh’s souks – the large, open-air markets – were a great place to get lost.

A souk in Marrakesh

To me, this sounded like an adventure.

To my husband, it sounded like a good reason to buy three maps and stay up half the night plotting our course.

As is usually the case in a solid marriage like ours, we spent the next few days bitching at each other compromising our varied approaches. I got to meander aimlessly, stumbling down hidden corridors discovering new sights and sounds and smells.

Pythagoras got to ensure we found our way back to our hotel instead of accepting the rug vendor’s invitation to share a bed with him and his four wives.

I keep thinking of this as I stumble my way through LET IT BREATHE, the third book in my contract with Sourcebooks. Every time I open the document on my computer, it’s like meandering down those spice-scented corridors in Marrakesh.

I start typing, and suddenly – hey look, there’s a camel!

I get to ride a camel into the Sahara at sunset.

(OK, technically, it’s an alpaca in my story, but it did appear rather unexpectedly in the manuscript one morning).

I know this approach would drive plenty of authors batty. Well-organized plotters like my critique partner, Cynthia Reese, would not take kindly to livestock of any sort showing up in their stories without an invitation.

And you know what? That’s OK. I don’t begrudge my husband’s need for a map or other authors' desire for a little more structure to their writing. We all have different ways of getting where we’re going. My method works great for me, just like a structured approach might work great for you.

And speaking of working, we did get my iPhone to function. We achieved it through calculated teamwork approach that involved me punching a lot of random buttons and Pythagoras frowning at the device and asking, “what the hell did you do to it?”

See? Compromise. It’s a beautiful thing.

Pythagoras figures out my new iPhone with some help from Bindi the Australian Kelpie.

The point of the journey is not to arrive*

Over on the Sourcebooks Casablanca blog, the authors are discussing travel this month.

My debut as a Sourcebooks author is still 17 months away, so I don’t get to play along just yet. But since travel is my very favorite thing in the whole world, I can’t resist the urge to play by myself over here (which, incidentally, is my second favorite thing in the whole world).

When it comes to travel, Pythagoras and I are very lucky to share the following:

1) A devotion to traveling light – carry-on only, even if we have to plan for both hiking in the Swiss Alps and snorkeling off the Italian coast.

2) A refusal to pay more than $50 a night for lodging

3) A commitment to the fine art of meandering – no hotel reservations, and standby flights that sometimes earn us first class seats, and sometimes earn us a few nights sleeping on an airport floor.

4) A steadfast belief that the journey itself is half the fun.

The latter has been particularly key for me – both in writing and in travel. As much as I enjoy typing “the end” or checking into a hotel room to discover little luxuries like soap, it’s the journey itself that really rolls my socks up.

This is something I’m having to remind myself as I’m in the very scary BEGINNING part of a book – the part where I really don’t know what’s going to happen, but I’m strapping on my seatbelt and hoping the ride isn’t too bumpy.

Then again, bumpy has its perks.

Once while traveling around Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula, we hopped aboard a bus headed to the colonial town of Valladolid. In theory, the journey should have taken an hour.

But because we’re penny-pinching backpackers, we opted for the third class bus. The primary difference between a first and third class bus in Mexico is that the first class bus will get you there within an hour or so of its predicted time.

A third class bus might get you there. Beyond that, they don’t make any guarantees.

I’m mostly fluent in Spanish (the result of many years of schooling, followed by four months living in Venezuela and learning more than I had in nine years of classroom study). This fluency made me privy to conversations that went like this:

Bus driver: We should pick up Juan.

Buddy riding in the seat behind him, serving no discernible purpose in the operation of the bus: You remember where he lives?

Bus driver: No, but if we drive around awhile, we’ll find him.

So we drove around for awhile looking for Juan. We made a few pit stops along the way to buy comic books and fruit, which the men took turns enjoying when they weren’t busy ignoring traffic signals and terrifying livestock with horn-blasts.

Eventually, we found Juan and headed out of town. We had just hit the highway when the bus driver smacked himself on the forehead.

Bus driver: Shit, I forgot my shirt.

Juan: You’re wearing a shirt.

Bus driver: No, my uniform shirt. I got in trouble for that last week. I’ve gotta go home and get it.

So we spun a u-turn in the middle of the highway – narrowly missing a large truck packed with chickens – and headed back to town. All 35 passengers aboard were treated to a lovely tour of the barrio, complete with a colorful lecture from the bus driver’s wife who shared her immense displeasure at his failure to return home the previous night.

Eventually, we set out again on a journey that lasted nearly four hours and included a rousing game of “let’s hit pedestrians with fruit pits while traveling 50 mph in a vehicle held together by duct tape.” When the bus driver emerged victorious, he celebrated by taking a nap on the floor while Buddy #1 took over driving duties.

Eventually, we made it to Valladolid. The bus driver was kind enough to weave his way through the narrow city streets in search of a hotel I pointed out in the guidebook. As the busload of weary passengers waved at us from the grime-streaked windows, we couldn’t help but feel a little sad to see the journey end.

So I have to keep reminding myself of this as I begin this new book. This is the journey – the fun part. The part where I get to throw fruit pits at pedestrians and weave through traffic at disturbing speeds.

Where’d I put my Dramamine?

* Butt-rock bonus points to anyone who can tell me song title and/or band name for the lyric that serves as the title of this post!