Away We Go: Annum

It has been one year since I began writing these stories.

I was scared, so scared, at the beginning. It was like opening my insides to an audience. Surgery onstage.

But not doing it was also scary. A completely different way, not as visceral. Something missing rather than something exposed. Not doing it would be the kind of thing you wouldn't get over quickly. A chronic condition.

In a rare move I chose the acute. I told myself I would ship the work once a week. One post, every week, no matter what.

And I did. Some weeks were an exercise in choosing from three or four good ideas. Some weeks I dashed off a few hundred words on Tuesday morning that felt wobbly at best. But I had a promise to keep. The positive part of having a mind that absolutely will not let go of a thought is that I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else if I didn’t finish. There are some very dark corners to this trait, but in this instance it served me well.

These missives have now been sent before your eyes for an entire rotation around the sun. They have been inspired, for the most part, by small things in very large places. By that I mean the spectacular kind of destination places you see in a magazine and point to on a map and think boy do I want to go there.

I have been stunningly lucky to do this. I have thousands of images to show for laying my head in so many corners of this country. But what strikes me the most in a review of this year is that small moments are the ones that spark the stories. As the immensely wise Cheryl Strayed would say, the tiny, beautiful things.

I promised myself I would write for fifteen minutes each day. Cracking the negative mind-chatter was only possible when I heard a wise writer say that 80% of what you write will be garbage and that is not only OK, it is necessary.

You have to let the sand settle after being shaken up. So you have to be still. Sitting in front of a computer or with a journal is a kind of stillness. It’s the kind I’ve experienced since I started writing in middle school. It was cringey, angsty and awful and I can barely open both eyes to read it now. But what surprised me the most was the volume. Alongside some encouraging teachers, I did a lot of practicing for a few years. I didn't let the voice that said this isn't worthwhile peek through very often. It was certainly the ignorance of youth alongside a trust that my teachers were telling the truth when they said keep going. (Like so many womn, to believe that she needs a constellation of external validation to feel worthy). That confidence faded after a few more years. Entering a world where I wasn't having to write for assignment left more room for disbelief in the ability. So I stopped. Every time I would try and pick it up again it would seem worthless. Where am I going with this? A book? Hah. Such a long shot. Why do it if you won't get credit?

That's where this wise writer's second piece of advice hit me like a wave. You have to find a way to send the work out into the world. Ship it. This is triply important if you think it's not ready.

I listened to the voice dispensing this excellent advice while driving down a two lane road in rural Colorado. My hands felt electrified on the steering wheel. I have to do this, I thought. I've been giving up far too early.

That’s the origin story of this Away We Go collection.

It has forced me to notice. It has guided me to turn over the small moments in my hands because each week I have to find something to write about. But it has had a secondary benefit because writing has imprinted these experiences in a different part of my brain. It helps me relive the richness of what we've gotten to do. After being on the road for almost two years, details are starting to escape. Where were we? This summer or last? Which state again? The intricacies are fuzzing around the edges.

This will be an anchor when we settle in a home. When there's school to attend at a specific time and practices to shuttle between and car-friendly snacks to purchase. I will come back here and be able to remember when time was less absolute.

Some have told me about reading my work and I am grateful for every single one of those times. Writing is like throwing your favorite memory into the void and wishing best of luck. Like a turtle laying eggs in the sand and then leaving - bye little ones. You’re on your own now.

Your words of encouragement and how you saw the stories are like seeing a glimpse of what those babies look like when they are grown. It helps when I don't think I have much to say, or isn’t very good. You help me push through that. Writing will continue to be a part of me whether it’s seen or not.

I don't know what I will do with this blog in the future. We're on our last big trip right now and although we will be continuing to travel once we're in our new home, Away We Go in it's current form is slowly coming to a close.

Regardless, thank you for spending a few minutes with me over the past year. It has connected me to each of you and I'm the better for it.

Inspired by events in Marathon, Florida.