INSANE THINGS AUTHORS DO
Let it be said. Authors can jump through insane hoops to capture thoughts and transform them to words at the most inopportune time. Here's one of my crazier moments.
My now-deceased buddy, Paul, and I were on a hunting trip in west Texas last year. I looked forward to the three-day break from writing. I'd been putting in 8 to 10-hour days churning out chapters in the weeks leading up to our excursion.
After reaching our destination, we energetically climbed into our blind and spent the first day "observing." We didn't take a shot.
We figured we had lots of time and plenty of deer — famous last words. Throughout the afternoon, several choice bucks, does, and a few yearlings mingled near the corn feeder a hundred yards away — the perfect setup for tomorrow.
For now, hunger set in, and we returned to our room to clean up. A couple of hours later, the evening grew chilly as we ate at the little joint at the marina across the road from our room.
With tummies full of cheeseburgers and grease-soaked fries, we strolled back toward our adequate but small sleeping quarters. The soft glow of the full moon lifted over the horizon as a frosty breeze blew from the north.
Paul and I turned in early since we planned to rise at 5 am the next morning to make sure we were settled into our cozy observation deck before the feeder flung its yellow morsels to entice the trophies we would await with anticipation. Tomorrow was the day to get the venison we loved to substitute the more expensive choices in our local grocery store.
Our wives were just as excited for the chance to save a little coin. There are times when a man ponders why his wife is more thrilled about his upcoming trip than he.
That night in the motel room, I was sleeping pretty well until nature called — a common malady that worsens with age to torture mature men like me — dang prostate! While I did my thing, my mind started whirring. Fresh ideas for the book churned — not just any ole thoughts — they were gems that needed to be captured immediately!
I set out in search of writing utensils. Paul snored loudly in peaceful slumber and I didn't want to turn on the light.
I tiptoed around like a mouse trying to sneak by a hungry cat. My fingers quietly groped around the nightstand drawer and found a pen, but no paper.
There ain't much writing to accomplished if you lack something on which to scribble. Desperation set in as I feared losing my wonderful ideas before I could transform them to words.
Finally, I remembered the receipt the waitress gave me. It was only about 1" x 2" wide, not much bigger than a postage stamp, but it would have to do.
Not wanting to waste another moment, I slipped outside barefooted with just my shorts and sat down under the yellow porch light — a poor choice of colors for writing. The temperature must have dropped about 5 degrees since we tucked in.
Bouncing up and down, my feet grew cold from the chilly concrete slab. Worse yet, my butt was freezing to the metal folding chair — not an ideal environment for creative work unless you're sculpting ice castles.
I scolded myself to stop being a sissy and to keep writing. A half-hour later, I'd written a chapter using the smallest print I've ever ventured on both sides of the tiny snippet of paper. I tucked the treasure in my wallet and went back to sleep.
After a glorious hunt, Paul and I made the return trip to home. My wife greated me with an amazing smile. As usual, she seemed more cheerful after I'd been away for awhile. She helped my unload and bring my luggage in the house.
A few hours later, I unpacked and recalled the chapter I'd written the night before. Panic struck when I couldn't find my miniature manuscript.
Did I drop it in the rush to pack? I lost my breath. How could I do such a thing?
Frantic, I kept searching. Minutes later after several fumbles through my wallet, euphoria charged my body.
There it was, tucked in a secret pouch I chose so I wouldn't forget where I put it. I'll never use that stupid hiding spot again!
When it comes to moments of discovery and the treasured ideas that follow, NOTHING — not shivers, lack of paper, yellow lights, or any other petty annoyance — can prevent a writer from their penchant to forge forward with their marvelous tale.
My now-deceased buddy, Paul, and I were on a hunting trip in west Texas last year. I looked forward to the three-day break from writing. I'd been putting in 8 to 10-hour days churning out chapters in the weeks leading up to our excursion.
After reaching our destination, we energetically climbed into our blind and spent the first day "observing." We didn't take a shot.
We figured we had lots of time and plenty of deer — famous last words. Throughout the afternoon, several choice bucks, does, and a few yearlings mingled near the corn feeder a hundred yards away — the perfect setup for tomorrow.
For now, hunger set in, and we returned to our room to clean up. A couple of hours later, the evening grew chilly as we ate at the little joint at the marina across the road from our room.
With tummies full of cheeseburgers and grease-soaked fries, we strolled back toward our adequate but small sleeping quarters. The soft glow of the full moon lifted over the horizon as a frosty breeze blew from the north.
Paul and I turned in early since we planned to rise at 5 am the next morning to make sure we were settled into our cozy observation deck before the feeder flung its yellow morsels to entice the trophies we would await with anticipation. Tomorrow was the day to get the venison we loved to substitute the more expensive choices in our local grocery store.
Our wives were just as excited for the chance to save a little coin. There are times when a man ponders why his wife is more thrilled about his upcoming trip than he.
That night in the motel room, I was sleeping pretty well until nature called — a common malady that worsens with age to torture mature men like me — dang prostate! While I did my thing, my mind started whirring. Fresh ideas for the book churned — not just any ole thoughts — they were gems that needed to be captured immediately!
I set out in search of writing utensils. Paul snored loudly in peaceful slumber and I didn't want to turn on the light.
I tiptoed around like a mouse trying to sneak by a hungry cat. My fingers quietly groped around the nightstand drawer and found a pen, but no paper.
There ain't much writing to accomplished if you lack something on which to scribble. Desperation set in as I feared losing my wonderful ideas before I could transform them to words.
Finally, I remembered the receipt the waitress gave me. It was only about 1" x 2" wide, not much bigger than a postage stamp, but it would have to do.
Not wanting to waste another moment, I slipped outside barefooted with just my shorts and sat down under the yellow porch light — a poor choice of colors for writing. The temperature must have dropped about 5 degrees since we tucked in.
Bouncing up and down, my feet grew cold from the chilly concrete slab. Worse yet, my butt was freezing to the metal folding chair — not an ideal environment for creative work unless you're sculpting ice castles.
I scolded myself to stop being a sissy and to keep writing. A half-hour later, I'd written a chapter using the smallest print I've ever ventured on both sides of the tiny snippet of paper. I tucked the treasure in my wallet and went back to sleep.
After a glorious hunt, Paul and I made the return trip to home. My wife greated me with an amazing smile. As usual, she seemed more cheerful after I'd been away for awhile. She helped my unload and bring my luggage in the house.
A few hours later, I unpacked and recalled the chapter I'd written the night before. Panic struck when I couldn't find my miniature manuscript.
Did I drop it in the rush to pack? I lost my breath. How could I do such a thing?
Frantic, I kept searching. Minutes later after several fumbles through my wallet, euphoria charged my body.
There it was, tucked in a secret pouch I chose so I wouldn't forget where I put it. I'll never use that stupid hiding spot again!
When it comes to moments of discovery and the treasured ideas that follow, NOTHING — not shivers, lack of paper, yellow lights, or any other petty annoyance — can prevent a writer from their penchant to forge forward with their marvelous tale.
