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eleanot
Every year for the past few I have taken small trips for my birthday. I pack a bag, grab the laptop, load the Jeep, and I go alone somewhere quiet and hopefully conducive to writing. I’ve gone near, and I’ve gone far, but what matters most is the quiet and the isolation and the room to think about nothing except for Eleanor.
Last year’s trip was by a longshot the best yet. I drove north to Klamath Falls, Oregon, where I stayed in a rustic little spot overlooking a lake, and just a few miles away from some great backcountry drives. Snow, chills, no obligations, and nothing but time.
The first year I did this I wrote some 22,000 words. Last year I drove home with 46,000 in the bag. This year, though, I am hacking away at the book in small fits and starts, trying to write just a little almost every day, because I don’t think I’ll be taking a writing trip this year, unless something changes.
Which is a shame. I am for the first time in possession of a well-crafted story map, and I know where the book is heading, and this is the time, more than any other, I ought to be in a strange room somewhere, pounding away at my keyboard.
Not looking so good, though. Too bad. Would’ve been a hell of a nice way to ring in thirty.
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