After the Paris attacks a few weeks ago, I heard one
reporter say something about Europe being more vulnerable to terrorist attacks
than the U.S. Maybe because of its closer geographic proximity to radical Islamists in the
Middle East, or governments that are perhaps not so good at gathering
intelligence about potential terrorists. But then he suggested maybe the reason
was because Muslims are persecuted and maltreated more in Europe than they are
in the U.S.
I wish I could remember who said it or even what network it was on. Having never been to Europe, and having never lived in a part
of America that has a high Muslim population, I absolutely can’t confirm the
truth of that statement. But it got me thinking.
What if that’s true?
If it is, I’m proud of the citizens of this country for
respecting and loving Muslims despite the increasing pressure from politicians
and media to “register” them, “profile” them, etc. And I sincerely hope that we
continue to do so. My worry is that, after centuries of living in peace with
Muslims, we will cave to this pressure.
It’s true that there are some Muslims out there who
want to kill us. Some even live in this country. There are also white Christians out there who want to kill
Muslims, or black people, or pro-choice baby-killers, etc. I’m so glad that
that doesn’t make every non-Christian Muslim or black person or pro-choicer
feel like I ought to be registered or profiled because I am a white Christian. I guess being in the "majority" helps me there.
Being Muslim is not the same as being a terrorist. Being a terrorist is the same as being a
terrorist. But we are being increasingly taught that this is not the case.
What if this is exactly what ISIS and other radicals want?
They want us to fear Muslims, judge them, whisper about them when they walk by
in their hijabs. They want more and more Muslims to feel like this country does
not accept them, so that maybe, maybe,
those more extreme individuals might decide to fight back against us. And maybe
those who never even considered more extremist thoughts might begin considering
them. That’s what ISIS wants. They want the United States to come alive with
extremists to fight us from within. They’ve said so, many times.
The Paris attacks happened just before Thanksgiving, and I began
to think about just how vulnerable we are to mass terrorist attacks. A crowded
train station, shopping mall, airport—and a single bomb. Apparently they are
easy to make. The Internet tells me there are an estimated 12 million Muslims
living in this country, and yet, in the weeks since the Paris attacks when ISIS was
calling on their followers with even greater fervor to commit the same atrocities in America, we were
somehow able to hold a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, numerous NFL and college
football games, and Black Friday with the most egregious incidents involving a
pretty bad snap to Aaron Rodgers and a couple of white people fighting over a
GoPro.
And yes, we just saw something happen in San Bernardino
involving Muslims who may have been radicalized. Fourteen people died.
Please understand that I in no way want to diminish the
horribleness of this tragedy. But does that mean we should fear all the rest of
those 11.9999 million Muslims? To judge them, and stare at them, and clutch nervously
at our spouses as we pass the neighborhood mosque or find a Middle Eastern man
sitting next to us on an airplane, and deny them services, and make them register—like a sexual offender or a
mutant from the X-Men universe?
It is my not-so-educated opinion that that kind of treatment
might make even the most peaceful of people begin to feel oppressed.
We are being told that the best defense against ISIS and
radical extremists is to go about our business to prove to them that we’re not
afraid. I concur with that statement, but want to add to it—I think our best
defense is to go about our business among
our Muslim friends and neighbors and prove to ISIS that we are not afraid.
I’m not overly optimistic that terrorists will
never attack America again. It will probably happen. Yes, sometimes (especially
lately) I fear what will be on the news when I turn on the TV. But I would
honestly rather take a bullet from a misguided extremist than sacrifice my compassion
and kindness in a misguided attempt to “feel safer”.
This is going to be very short and not formatted (yet?) and contain no GIFs (and I say it like Jif, in case anyone cares - probably because I love peanut butter)...but I am literally trying to do this and pack my bags for a trip to Spokane all at the same time.
Plus there's some kind of funky zucchini casserole in my fridge that I don't want to eat and I can't stop thinking about it, because I so badly want to clean the casserole dish.
Um, anyway...
I wrote a novel about a slightly depressed geneticist from Missouri who unexpectedly lands herself in an undercover operation to bust a crime syndicate in Seattle. It was based in part on my own experiences a) as a geneticist and b) trying to become an FBI agent.
Want to know how the latter went down? I applied online, got selected to take a written test in Kansas City, "passed" said test, met with an agent in Jefferson City who administered a physical fitness exam (for which I had been training my booty off for months), passed said exam, and was wait-listed for the Dallas interview phase. If I passed the interview, I would have taken a polygraph, undergone an extensive background check, and then, potentially, been sent to Quantico.
Instead, while I was on the wait list, BAM. Federal hiring freeze of 2010. Go figure.
Anyway, after that I did lots of other stuff in my field, like catching mountain lions, tracking woodpeckers, trying the Peace Corps (and failing), being a geneticist some more, hanging out in a Honduras jungle, and then landing some jobs with state wildlife management agencies.
I now work for the state of Montana. And my job is SUPER DUPER BUSY like whoa.
But I still find time to write. And I love it. I love my day job, and I get to fly around in helicopters and little planes counting mountain goats, deer, elk, and gray wolves (there are tons of pics on Twitter). Unfortunately, I also have to attend public meetings and negotiate/administer changes to hunting regulations, drive to my regional headquarters ALL THE TIME for staff meetings, talk to residents who have wildlife problems (some of which can be really silly), pick up the occasional dead deer, and give hunters advice on where to go. Oh, and then my bighorn sheep herd got pneumonia, so I have to deal with that now.
I'm sort of a Leslie Knope of the wildlife world. LOCAL GOVERNMENT FTW.
But as a mentee, I will work my booty off. Just like I worked my booty off training for the FBI. I am so excited about this story, and I'm having so much fun with it, but I also know I could benefit from some experienced eyes. I entered #PitchWars last year with a fantasy story that I still love - I was unsuccessful landing a mentor, but I still had a blast and met some great people.
In 2007, I woke up in a fancy furnished bedroom in a rich family's house in Irvine, California.
In 2008, I woke up in a cramped travel trailer parked outside Yellowstone Lake.
In 2012, I woke up on a Thermarest in a nylon tent beneath a blue tarp in the cloud forest of northwestern Honduras.
Later in 2012, I woke up in a hotel in downtown Queretaro, Queretaro, Mexico, about to begin my 27 months of Peace Corps service.
For me, waking up in a new place for the first time is the worst feeling in the world.
There are so many unknowns. Will I like this job? Will I like this town? Will I make friends? Will my landlords turn out to be douchebags, or will I find cockroaches coming out of the drains in the bathroom, or will I finally get eaten by a critter with sharp teeth? Will I be able to make ends meet? Will I meet a guy here?
Will I stay here forever?
I've talked before about how many times I've moved. New jobs, new places, new life. The longest I've ever stayed somewhere since high school was 23 months in graduate school, followed by this past 16 months in Texas. You'd think by now I'd be used to moving, to facing these unknowns. You'd think they wouldn't haunt me so much. Sure, I've hardened myself to be able to take pretty much anything these changes can throw at me, but it doesn't mean I don't still get that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach on that very first morning.
Perhaps it's an odd thing, to think of something so "tame" as that as the worst feeling in the world. I suppose childbirth is probably worse. Or heartbreak. (I'd say waking up for the first time after a heartbreak might be worse, come to think about it.) In my last post I mind-barfed about how scared I was of getting the Montana job. Well, I got it. I accepted it. And that fear is gone now.
All that's left is the dread of that first morning.
I feel like, in the past, if I could get through that, the rest was pie. Getting there isn't the problem; getting there is a task, a concrete thing, a job to do, with planning and complications and problems that you face and then they're done. But after that? What is there? Nothing, but waiting, waiting to see how things are going to turn out.
And it's a clean slate.
Better not screw this up.
And it's worse this time, because Montana...this could be it. Permanent. Life. Forever.
Better not screw this up.
My eyes open. I am on the bed, but which way is it facing? The window's all wrong; it should be on the other side. It's too small. This room is too small. The sounds outside are different, wrong. Oh, yes: I am in Montana. I am not in Texas.
With my glasses lying on the bedside table, I can't see a thing, just fuzzy shadows, light filtering through the blinds. I stare up at the ceiling and choke back the dread. Today I will go to work for the first time. What will I wear? That doesn't matter. What will my coworkers think of me? What will I do? Will I make stupid jokes, embarrass myself, have to explain for the thousandth time what my backstory is? What will I do when I get home? Where will I go? Will I go for a hike? Will I watch TV? Is this going to be the first day of a routine that is repeated over and over again, thousands of times?
Better make it count, then. Today is the day. This day will define all the rest.
Warning: mind barfing. I am not going to attempt to turn this into a cohesive blog entry; it's more what's going through my head right now.
Stockholm Syndrome is the psychological phenomenon that occurs when victims (of, say, kidnapping for example) develop feelings of empathy toward their captors. A quick skim through Wikipedia will tell you that the response is perhaps the brain's way of dealing with trauma; if one can empathize with his/her enemies, he/she may view them as less of a threat. For people undergoing trauma day after day, it makes sense.
I'm thinking of this because, since I got back from a job interview for my dream job in Montana, I have been overwhelmed by the most ridiculous feeling: I don't want to leave Fort Stockton.
This is, of course, completely ridiculous. I hate this town. I hate how hot it is, how the only place to shop is a crappy Wal-Mart, how I have to listen to truck traffic all day, how the only thing that makes a wave in this town is when they build a new truck stop. I hate the high cost of living and the lack of public land to go hiking/biking/jogging on. But I don't want to leave. I feel like it's my own personal form of Stockholm Syndrome.
I used to love moving. I used to love packing up my crap, driving across the country, and settling in for another six-month adventure in a new part of the world. It was a good thing I loved it, because I sure did it a lot.
Since graduating from high school, I've had 33 roommates; I have moved 13 times (not counting any short-term projects that lasted less than 3 months, of which there were at least 4); and I have lived in 7 states and 3 countries.
So if given the opportunity to take a (better paying and probably much more exciting) job in Missoula, Montana, why the hell would I ever turn it down?
I don't know. But I'm sure thinking about it.
I don't understand what the problem is. I've made friends, lost friends, loved jobs, hated jobs, moved, stayed, wanted to move but couldn't, didn't want to move but moved anyway, and none of it ever bothered me. Water off a duck's back. Shattered friendships, lost acquaintances, no big deal. I was used to it. Makes me sound callous, I know, but come on; how else could I stay sane with so much change?
Coming to Fort Stockton was hard - I knew it would be a tough place to live, that it would be difficult to find friends. But maybe the key thing is the promise I made to myself: that if I couldn't stand it after 6 months (which later became a year), I would move again.
And I didn't.
It was my first ever permanent job, so I did things like buy actual furniture and turn my apartment, however crappy it is, into the best "home" I could manage. Maybe that's part of my problem; like it or not, I have invested myself, however little, into this town, and perhaps that makes it harder to think about leaving.
Granted, I never really had anywhere else to go. But I settled into a routine in Fort Stockton that involved a lot of Netflix, a repetitive but functional exercise routine, and the development of a very important facet of my life: writing. I found ways to fill the time, got used to being a little more lazy, got used to my job being pretty boring.
So am I afraid of going back to normal? Of having to re-teach myself how to live like a normal person? To have a life, to date, to go shopping? Is that it?
Or is some subconscious fear that this job - this potential move to Missoula - would be the last one? That I would settle there? That that is where I will stay?
Maybe I'm not afraid of moving. I'm afraid of staying. In my mind, Fort Stockton = temporary. It's safe. It was never really meant to be permanent - I never even considered the notion that I would stay here forever - and if I stay here for now, there's never any pressure to put down any roots. But I won't have an excuse if I go to Montana. It would be the culmination of a dream, the crowning achievement of my wildlife career, to be able to live in a beautiful place and study wildlife species I actually like. Plus, it pays 30% more.
But I would have to stay. For the first time in my life, it wouldn't be temporary.
I would have to buy Montana license plates. Get a Montana driver's license (I have had TX plates and a TX license since I got my car/license, despite all my moves). I would buy a Montana house.
I would become a Montanan.
I have never, ever, felt like I belonged to a place. When people ask me where I'm from, I honestly don't have an answer for them. I am not a Texan, though I live in Texas. I am not an Arizonan, though I grew up there. I am not an Idahoan, though I went to college there. I am not a Missourian, though I spent three years there. Lack of identity was my identity.
Well, that would change.
I am a nomad. That is my identity. I am so freaking scared of having to create a new one.
And part of me is hoping they don't offer the job.
Of course, of course I would take it if they offered it to me. Of course. But if that happens, I know it would be the scariest thing I've ever done. And I've done some pretty scary things.
The human brain is so messed up.
Thinking about this a little more, I'm wondering now if this is just the normal reaction to moving and change. I suppose most people are scared. But I never have been before; change has always been so easy and, in some cases, preferable to stasis. Something's different now. Furniture. True friends, perhaps. A team of coworkers I actually like. Damn it; I got attached to a place I hate. How did I let that happen?
Once upon a time, I posted my query and some writing samples from the Front Range in the Absolute Write Forum for some feedback. I'll admit I didn't handle it very well; my query got ripped to shreds, for good reason, and since I was an ultra-green n00bs, I got a little defensive. I'm not proud of that, and I left the forum with my head hung in shame.
However, there were a few side effects of that visit that have proven somewhat educational. One of these was an underlying sentiment that the plot in my fantasy was just too "unbelievable". I'm not talking fantasy world/flying cats/mysterious portals unbelievable. This had to do with the real, modern world, and a possible conflict that, apparently, most people don't think could ever happen:
The possibility that we will exterminate mountain lions (again).
I have a sneaky suspicion (based on some mentor Twitter clues) that this could be the reason my manuscript wasn't picked for PitchWars. It could also be the reason I'm not getting an agent.** Maybe the reason isn't so much the unlikelihood of such an event, but the controversy of it - if so, that's more understandable, since controversial/message-y fiction is risky to publish in this market. But if it is the "unlikelihood", then, well, that pisses me off a lot.
I even had someone on the forum tell me straight-up that I must not have done my research.
So, excuse the brief own-horn-tooting, but let me be clear: I am a professional wildlife biologist. In ten years in this field (five of which were focused on North American mammalian predators), I have studied current wildlife populations, historical case studies, the works of conservationists like Aldo Leopold, John Muir, and Teddy Roosevelt (who were among the first to realize that something horrible was happening to our ecosystems), and the impacts of current human population trends on North American wildlife habitats. I have worked in the field with over a dozen species of mammals, birds, and amphibians. I got into this career because of a childhood love of wolves which, I hope I don't need to remind anyone, were completely extirpated from the western United States shortly after the arrival of Europeans. Oh, and we almost did the same thing to cougars. Bounties governments placed on their heads caused such a decline that until about the 1970s, hardly any were left in Colorado. And when they came back, they had a whole lot more people to deal with.
And in 2010, I worked with mountain lions in the exact setting in which my novel takes place.
My fictional story begins with the killing of a mountain lion by a Division of Wildlife biologist. This happened because the lion, dubbed "Mister Rogers", was killing deer in a heavily-populated Boulder neighborhood, posing a risk to residents (who didn't want to give up the aesthetic appeal of herds of deer wandering around). The name Mister Rogers was actually taken from a bobcat project I worked on, and a male bobcat who was given the nickname because he hung out almost exclusively in a Southern California neighborhood.
But Mister Rogers the Cougar was actually based on this female:
That's me after her capture. We didn't have to kill her - it was her first offense (and the lions are typically given three). But basically everything in that scene in the novel was taken from this experience. You can't tell from the picture, but that cat and I are sitting in the backyard of a lovely house just outside of town, in a neighborhood full of one-acre ranchettes and mansions. This cat actually killed a deer in the front yard, dragged it through the garage, and down into the backyard. She was so bold, all my boss had to do to capture her was walk up to her with a dart gun.
Then there was this cat:
He was just a yearling, again captured in somebody's backyard near Lookout Mountain (just outside Golden/Denver). Unfortunately, this cat was hit by a car on I-70 a week after his capture.
Then the story of Flizzy (another star of my novel) was based on real events as well, which I documented here on my other blog. Basically, this was a female who came into Golden all the time to kill people's house cats. She usually left right afterward, until one day a homeowner filmed this lion and her two kittens in the backyard - and this was Golden, where backyards are small, fenced, and close together like you might expect in any suburban neighborhood in the U.S. We captured the whole family (and my boss actually did dart the mother cat in a small culvert off a hike-and-bike trail, just like in the novel) and relocated them outside of town. Unfortunately, she came back, and we had to do it all over again, and I got to watch this mother cat leaping over backyard fences from my vantage point on the hike-and-bike trail. It was an unforgettable experience.
Fortunately, no tragedies like those which occur in the novel actually happened during my time on the project (about 7 months). But all one need do is read The Beast in the Gardenby David Baron for a thorough background on the cougars vs. humans conflict in Colorado. In 1991 an 18-year-old athlete was killed and partially eaten by a lion near his high school in Idaho Springs. Other attacks have been documented in Colorado since then, though I believe none were fatal. However, elsewhere in the United States, especially in California, mountain lions are occasionally responsible for the deaths of both adults and children.
Lions are predators. They are dangerous. They've evolved to look for and prey upon vulnerable, easy prey - like suburban deer, dogs and cats, and unsupervised children. It's not really their fault. It's how they've survived for eons. And when their world is being overrun by homes and streets and apartment buildings, and all the good habitats deeper in the wilderness are already occupied by other cats, well, what choice do they have?
After decades of absence from their former geographic range, lions are making a comeback all over the country. When I worked in Missouri, I got a chance to help the Department of Conservation confirm mountain lion sightings by genotyping hair and fecal samples collected at the scene. Yes, there are lions there now. Recently lions have been sighted as far east as Connecticut. Some people think this is a good thing, while others consider it the return of a predator that no longer has a place in the human-dominated landscape.
My novel is built around the idea that, out of concern for public safety, Colorado will again exterminate the species, leaving them to exist solely in places like Yellowstone and Canada and Alaska where there aren't enough people to be threatened by them. It also discusses the idea that smart living in Colorado - like keeping pets indoors, dissuading deer from coming into suburban neighborhoods, and keeping an eye on young children in the wilderness - can prevent unfortunate human-lion interactions. If you go live in the wilderness - or along its boundary - you have to realize that the wilderness is not, nor is it ever supposed to be, "safe". And that's part of why so many people love it.
I believe relative peace can be found - and for the moment, Colorado does, too. But how many naive people will it take - how many attacks, how many pets killed, how many deer dragged through yards and garages - until we revoke the lions' right to coexist with us?
Is it really so hard to believe?
Here are a few facts to leave you with:
Wolves used to live all over the western United States, and so far, we have only allowed them to return to a tiny fraction of their former range. They used to live in Colorado, too, but the general consensus from the public and the feds is that there is no longer enough unfragmented habitat for them to safely exist there. Until a few years ago, any wolves which dispersed from Idaho (where they were reintroduced) into neighboring Oregon were captured and removed. Incidentally, of all the United States' predators, wolves are probably the least likely to kill you. I could get into the centuries-old, deep-seated hatred humans feel toward wolves, but I won't.
Grizzly bears, too, used to live in Colorado (and Arizona, California, and New Mexico...in fact, they're California's official state mammal, and appear on their state flag). You think we'll ever let them come back? Highly unlikely.
And then there are the Mexican wolves. Fewer than 100 remain in the wild after more than a decade of reintroduction efforts. And the citizens of Catron County, New Mexico built bus stop shelters for their children out of fear they will be brutally killed by Mexican wolves (which weigh, on average, about 70 pounds).
We are currently living through one of the largest mass extinctions of flora and fauna this planet has ever known. Some argue that more species have gone extinct due to human activity than the number that died out in the event that killed the dinosaurs.
I hate to leave you with a big, sappy cliche, but the persistence of wildlife species on this planet depends on you. And yes, my novel deals with the conflict (though I've tried to keep it subtle and more character-focused, and the bigger plot in my story has almost nothing to do with cougars). I've done this because it's a topic near and dear to my heart. I fear every day that, by the time I am old, there will be no predators left in this country.
And that's not a future I want to see.
**And maybe I'm not getting an agent because the book/my writing is no good. That is also a possibility. :-)
I've heard hundreds of accounts of well-known authors whose first novels have never been published.
I figure they wrote that first story because they felt it was just too important not to write, or because the characters kept bothering them, gnawing at them, needing to be put on paper (or the computer screen). Awesome: a new writer is born. But eventually that first manuscript, over which they'd toiled and cried and offered blood sacrifices, was eventually and quietly abandoned. Maybe their idea was too out-there for the current market, the writing wasn't quite up to par, or the structure just didn't work.
And then, they wrote another one. And it was this second story that ended up being the one that launched their careers.
Why does it seem to work this way? I'm beginning to understand.
The first novel I ever wrote on purpose, The Front Range, is done.
The first draft is completely unrecognizable from what it is today (it even has a different title), and while I like it, it was sure a pain in the patooty to get it there. I still don't understand what the hell I was thinking when I wrote some parts of it; some really should-be-dramatic parts were not very dramatic, my characters occasionally acted completely out of character, and some of the language was just plain flat and boring. It's come a long way since then. And now it's "done" (in quotes, because, well, if it's not published, it ain't done). Yay!
So I started another one.
As a new author, I'm almost as intrigued by this whole process of writing as I am by the stories themselves (after all, we write because we have intriguing stories to tell, right?). After I "finished" The Front Range, I started about a half dozen other little WIPs that I got excited about for maybe a day, which usually involved typing a million words per minute into my favorite muse (Notepad). Settings, plots, character profiles - you name it, I wrote it down, and then plunged ahead into the actual story while the fire was still blazing.
And, inevitably, that fire burned out.
So I'd go back into The Front Range, do a little tweaking, a little querying, a little changing, a little sequel-working.
Then I'd get another awesome idea and start the thinking-Notepadding-brainstorming-firestoking process over again, hoping this next one would stick.
And then, one day, one of them did. And it's completely different. The Front Range is a fantasy/adventure, and this new one is a romantic thriller.
no no no, not that kind of thriller
I enjoy thrillers, sure, but honestly, the idea of doing all the necessary research into police procedure, types of weapons, and the intricacies of criminal enterprises never really appealed to me. But for some reason, I couldn't get this idea out of my head. I started writing. Granted, the fire did burn low like I expected it to, but I plunged through the doldrums and came out stronger on the other end.
And MAN is it different. I'm taking risks with style, voice, and flashbacks that I never dreamed of when I wrote The Front Range (the quality of which I still stand by; narrative complexity isn't a prerequisite for a good book, after all). Perhaps the most interesting part is that, because this is a thriller, there are multiple subplots, mysteries, and plot twists I'm planning, and putting them all together in such a way as to keep the reader guessing while providing the proper hints in the proper places is entertaining as hell. It almost feels like the story is a great big fluffy blanket and I'm hiding stuff in its folds, making sure every little hidden item is evenly spaced, adequately concealed, and then revealed in the plot at just the right time so that when you shake the whole thing out, nothing falls and shatters on the floor.
The point is, I've come into it with a better plan this time and, more importantly, with experience.
I must admit part of me is still stubbornly holding onto The Front Range, but I can understand the aforementioned phenomenon a little better now, and I won't be so heartbroken if this story is never published. I'm still grateful it exists in the first place, for it taught me so much.
It taught me what works for me and what doesn't when it comes to plotting and writing a story.
It taught me how to be comfortable with my writing, helping me find a pattern, language style, and voice that is uniquely me.
(An interesting side note: since I began writing, I've discovered I am better able to communicate orally, with clients and coworkers, almost as if I had unlocked a source of language in my brain that I had never accessed before. I find I am wittier, quicker, and more comprehensible than I was before. Anyone else had this happen?)
And, of course, it taught me the basics of revising, pitching, querying, and publishing. (I still kick myself thinking of all the awesome agents I missed out on simply because I didn't know how to query yet.)
I have high hopes for this second novel. I'm about 16,000 words in and can't wait to finish it, and I already feel like it's a stronger piece than The Front Range. I'm not saying that, if you're a new author, you should give up on your first piece. By all means, try your damnedest to get it out there; even if it doesn't work out, the process is extremely valuable. But don't let it hold you back, either.
They say that, just like anything else, writing takes practice. Maybe some people get lucky. Maybe some people are naturals.
Miles and miles and miles of road stretching between a handful of tiny towns in the Chihuahuan Desert.
On the busier roads, like US 67 between Alpine and Fort Stockton, maybe you'll pass two dozen other cars on the one-hour drive.
And on the less busy ones, like US 385 from Marathon to Big Bend National Park, you might drive the entire thing and never see a soul.
I am the county biologist for the second largest county in Texas, which is larger than the state of Delaware and only slightly smaller than Connecticut. It's almost 100 miles from east to west on I-10, slightly shorter from north to south on the US highways.
central Pecos County
As a member of the District 1 team, I'm often asked to help with my coworkers' tasks too, ranging from El Paso in the west, Midland in the north, Sanderson in the east, and Alpine (where our district office is) in the south. It's a big district; the entire West Texas region is roughly the size of Maine.
Thus, I drive. A lot. We all do.
the road to Alpine
Somewhere in a previous blog post I wrote about how I've begun treasuring these long hours on the road.
my chariot
There are only a few radio stations, and my truck, with which I have a love/hate relationship, doesn't have a CD player or auxiliary jack and only picks up the radio stations when it feels so inclined. The truck itself is also loud, with shot suspension and doors that don't close properly, so when I do listen to the radio, I have to turn it up so high my ears are often bleeding when I arrive at my destination.
Thus, most of the time I leave it off, and I drive 75-80 miles per hour (yes, these are the actual speed limits) on the deserted desert roads, sometimes late at night after spotlight surveys, sometimes early in the morning to catch the plane or the helicopter for aerial surveys, and I think about my novels.
There's an actual shift that takes place in my head when I set out, a switch I can almost feel, turning my brain from real life to imagination. Sometimes my real-life worries are too great or I'm too tired, and it's frustrating then, like I can't quite reach that switch no matter how hard I try. But when I can reach it, it's magic.
Yucca, ocatillo, rattlesnakes, and mesquite fly by, and maybe another car or two (to which my fingers automatically lift from the steering wheel to offer a friendly salute, like the fingers of all good West Texans), and I barely notice. I'm thinking about my scenes. I'm thinking about that awkward moment when my two main characters meet, the build-up of romantic tension as they travel through Europe, that climactic moment when they first kiss. I'm thinking of enemies, attacks, close calls, and tragic ends. I'm thinking of witty remarks to impertinent questions, lies told to mask emotion, declarations of love and loyalty that are neither cheesy nor understated. Winks, nods, shrugs, frowns. Plot twists, hidden agendas, secret ambitions, driving forces. I put it all together.
I even keep a little notebook in my center console so I can jot particularly good ideas down. Not while driving, of course. Sure, there's never any traffic, but you never know what might jump out in front of you on these roads, like a deer or an aoudad...
...or something else.
black-tailed rattlesnake in Pecos County
I feel lucky that I get to have these moments, these hours of faraway thought, this valuable time for imagining and plotting and fine-tuning. As someone who's sort of ADHD, I have a hard time sitting still at home trying to come up with ideas. I can't even do it while hiking, one of my favorite things to do, because I'm so stimulated by everything around me.
Driving is it. Driving is key. Driving is crucial. I'm not sure why.
I have always loved driving, probably for this very reason. Sure, I'm useless in places of unending beauty (and road-happy wildlife) like Colorado or Montana, or places with heavy traffic, or places I've never been, but I now know the roads of West Texas so well, each twist and turn, each blind corner, each patch of cedars where I know the elk are lurking, that I can do it on autopilot. Don't get me wrong - I'm still aware of what's happening. I can still spot the eyeshine of a deer coming up on the shoulder and press my foot to the brake, or watch an approaching oil truck to make sure he stays in his lane. I have damn good driving instincts and I'm not ashamed to brag. Maybe this is why I love it - because I can do two things at once, a perfect, guilt-free combination of work and pleasure.
Maybe I love it because it keeps me sane. Because I'd go nuts with all this driving if my brain didn't have a way to amuse itself.
