Sadie sleeps beneath the dining room table as I write. It's my wedding anniversary — I would say "our" but that would reference the previous sentence, suggesting that a black lab instead of Calene has been my bride for thirty-five years. The French doors leading out onto the back patio are open, despite the June gloom hanging over Orange County. Django stands out there, keeping guard, barking at the Memorial Day barbecue in the backyard of a house just down the slope. They've got it coming. Calene naps on the couch.
I've moved into the house from my office because it feels wrong to spend a Sunday, a wedding anniversary, and a perfectly wonderful day alone in a room without windows. People here are complaining about the May weeks without sun but I actually love the conflict in those gray skies. The manuscript revisions for Taking London are doing that thing all books do during the edit process, waking me up in the middle of the night to remind me that a paragraph on page 8 works much better if it is moved to page 300. You'd be surprised how many little tweaks can turn a pretty good story into a rock-solid narrative.
As a reader, I'm always pleased when an author trusts my intelligence enough to tease miniature references into a story, sure in the knowledge I can keep up. It's subtle and risky, because the reader might have forgotten that initial set-up when it's paid off ten chapters later. But done correctly these add a richness to the storytelling.
To keep everyone abreast of what I'm talking about, last week's post let the world know my editor was challenging me to breathe new life into Taking London. What I sent him was a taut story full of action and heroes. He saw something richer in those characters. I've taken up the challenge in the past seven days, adding thirty pages, two characters, and two chapters. There's more work to be done but I'm sending New York a whole new book on Friday. Between now and then, I will read every page at least one more time, fix holes, and then leave it alone.
Which brings me to June 6. That's D-Day. That's also the paperback pub date for Taking Berlin. By then, Taking London will be complete. And Calene is off to spend a week in Canada with her old half-marathon training partner, who has since moved back from the OC. She will be gone for a week. It will be just me and the dogs. I have plans for endless hours of reading and long walk-runs on the trails of O'Neill Park, now overgrown from the winter rains and as green as emeralds.
And yet... I've just finished writing a book. My birthday is just a few days off. Cross country practice doesn't start for three weeks. This seems like an ideal time to commit some senseless act of mischief.
First things first: get someone to watch the dogs for a few days. Maybe drive up to Mammoth Lakes for the Rock Trail and duck tacos at Roberto's. Or fly to the Netherlands for Springsteen's June 11 show (I've got enough miles and flight credits to do it for nothing). You know, something stupd crazy. I literally have the chance to go anywhere for a few crazy days.
Except Moscow. No one's going to Moscow these days. But you know what I mean.
My friend Terry Johnson, a hardcore mountain biker, has a saying that I may have already quoted in this space: "I don't have a second home. I don't have a sports car. I don't have a boat. I don't have a mistress. But I do have a bike." This is his justification for spending ten grand on a carbon fiber bike.
Or, as I like to think of it, spending money on experiences rather than possessions. I'm not big on material goods. Beer, running shoes, and books — that's where I spend those writing dollars. I have no interest in a second home, a Porsche (well, a little), a boat, or even a new mountain bike. And one woman in my life is quite enough, thank you. But I love travel. I bask in the aroma of a pub far off the tourist track. I slapped down my credit card in an instant for the privilege of flying in a Spitfire — and would do it again tomorrow. Buying stuff just for the sake of owning more means nothing and is easily forgotten, but experiences are forever. Watching the spotlight go dark on the Eiffel Tower, exploring Hawaii's North Shore, snorkeling off the Maldives. Those remembered moments find their way out my subconscious once every while and make me smile.
So I could spend this June 6-13 week doing something nonsensical, jet-lagging, and uncomfortable.
Or maybe I'll just stay home. Like Buckaroo Banzai said, "no matter where you go, there you are," Travel and the odd adventure means an escape, though not always an escape from the stuff running around your head that deserves a little attention. There's something amazing to be said for a week of alone time, sleeping late and reading books in the backyard. Sounds like quite an experience.