“Have you been writing?”
“…uh…”
“No wonder you’re feeling off. You’re a writer. You should be writing.”
* * * * *
This corner of the world has been at rest for the last two months, and here’s why:
I got a job.
Last I left everyone, I was parked at a desert in Nevada reminiscing about how this might be the last year of travel. So clearly, some shit happened. I mean, why else would I leave this:
Best free campsite, eva.
Shortly after my last post I began a job search fueled by thoughts of where I wanted to land.
It was a three way tie between Austin, TX, Portland, OR, and Vermont, and if I’m being honest, it still is, but Vermont won… for now. I had no aching desire to live here year round, so know it took more than the job for me to return in fucking February.
Y’all may or may not remember this post: “…Solo matches the speed of a landing biplane, and the thought of getting a pilot’s license is formed and filed away as a goal for a future date.” – Aug 6, 2019.
It’s something that has been spooling in the back of my mind since childhood, and officially since that post back in Aug. I mentioned the idea to a friend, and she’s all like, our alma mater has a pilot program… *hint hint nudge nudge comebacktoVermont*
So I look into it, and of course, it’s expensive, because college is expensive, so I look for a loophole: GET A JOB AT THE COLLEGE. And low and behold, there’s a nice job resting slightly above answering phones all day, and way below the level of responsibility I had at my last desk job, and I’m like, sure, I guess I’ll try rejoining normal society for yet another degree.
One zoom interview later, I leave the desert and head to Portland, unsure if I’ll be driving across the country in two weeks or three months.
On the way there, I take a route I haven’t before, at least not one I remember, and definitely not in the winter, and I almost died—yes again—in Oregon. You’d think, after over 60k miles of driving in the last three years, my dumbass would think to check the roads and elevation before venturing into the unknown. But no…
FYI, Oregon doesn’t care if you run out of gas. Nevada was nice enough to have signs that were very clear there wasn’t going to be gas for 150 miles, and there might be aliens.
After the last gas station enters the rearview mirror, with me thinking a half a tank of gas is fine I end up in this beautiful hell:
I’ve never gone over 400 miles on a full tank of gas, so it was just white knuckles the last sixty miles, where every curve held the promise of maybe a gas station, and only left me with disappointment and a rising fear that I might freeze to death. Because it’s 20 degrees.
I babied the van up hills, and coasted down them, turned all electronics off to maximize the mpg, and when I did finally see houses, after nearly 30 miles of nothing, I made mental notes of where they were on the odometer in case I needed to walk back for help.
Then, like a beacon of hope, there’s this:
Clearly, I went through some kind of time loop portal, because with a full tank of gas, I make it to Bend, OR and there’s this:
I venture west through the mountains and discover the van does rather well on snowy roads.
I make it though, unscathed.
I landed in Portland with two of my favorite people, and let the tension of eastern Oregon melt away into their calm, familiar, comfort.
A few days later, my phone rings, and I have a job offer. So, it’s decided: I’m moving back to VT.
But not yet.
First, I visit the Portland fam, as well as my daughter, who I haven’t seen in nearly a year.
It felt healthy to connect with her—to physically see that she’s happily independent, and making choices for herself. Without a doubt, I am very proud of her for building her life the way she sees fit.
Next, I go to Washington, because why not be as far away from Vermont as possible before I tackle the 3,600 mile drive across the country in February.
This next passage is a shift, as I wrote it after I left the Port Townsend Goddard, while I was on the road, and honestly, I haven’t written anything worthwhile since.
*****
Readers are hooked on the drug that is poetry, novellas, novels, memoirs, and so on; and writers are the dealers.
Though it’s been a year since I graduated from Goddard’s MFA Creative Writing program, this was the first chance to attend an in-person graduation since the pandemic began—and it’s likely the last time I’ll witness it on the West Coast.
It’s the day before Valentine’s Day, and a graduate asks, “So how long did it take you to get here?”
“Well, I left in November.”
Though it wasn’t the intention to end a three-year journey on the road with a Goddard graduation, it was the perfect send-off. It was only three days and two nights on campus, and it was completely worth it; because I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—keep writers in your life.
Reading is a drug—the best drug. A story can move into the innermost points of someone’s vulnerability and beyond any known solar system. It can delve into civilizations that live solely in someone’s mind. Writers collect all the sorrow and joy and hilarity and tragedy and everything and anything that exist in tandem, sloshing around in the infinite ocean of the human experience, and mush them together, and pull them apart, and gently lay them down word by word.
Hearing writers share their innermost thoughts is like watching someone hold out a piece of their soul and trust others will accept them without judgment. It is love in its purest form.
It’s strange to think I’ve only known some of these writers for less than four years, and some for as short as a night. Previous to this journey, some writers were only tiny two-dimensional faces in rectangular squares on a screen during Zoom classes and online gatherings. To finally see their eyes and lips and cheeks and body in three-dimensional motion, to feel their warmth in a long-awaited embrace, to hear the excitement in each other’s voices exclaim, “it’s you!” as if we were suddenly reunited after decades upon decades of separation, well, it’s euphoric.
The last of our original cohort graduated, then, five of us—two graduates and three alum—slipped off-campus to sip wine and scotch and reminisce on a time that expanded into infinity, but in reality, was only three and half years. And then one by one we retreat back into reality. Back into the world. For our jobs. Our lovers. Our Children. Our friends. Our lives outside of writing.
And because of their words, their presence, this experience will forever linger.
* * * * *
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Now juxtapose back to the road. From Washington to Vermont, I woke up in one state and fell asleep in a different one every day for ten days.
I take a small detour in Idaho.
I did this, to see…
Spat on it, then gave a kiss, because separating the art from the artist is impossible, and both reactions felt appropriate.
I went to the final Meow Wolf, with friends this time.
Then I stood at the geographical center of the lower 48.
Along the way, I saw and hugged all the family, landed in Vermont the day before a snow storm, and huddled under a pile of blankets until it melted.
I’m now on week six of house hopping, because VT is still too cold to be in the van. Tack on my first real job in three years, that I’m prepping for pre-calc, and I think that summarizes why I haven’t been writing and am so very, very tired.
I miss my bed and my own space, though I am extremely grateful for the people who’ve opened their homes until I get settled. What Vermont lacks in public transportation, housing, and any sense of what is deemed normalcy in the rest of the country, it makes up for with the abundant generosity of its community. I love you all.
In the meantime, I’m pushing through algebra 1 & 2, Trig and Statistics as I rewire my brain for the next stage of education. I’m taking a discovery flight in two weeks to solidify that this pilot thing is worth the time, money, and long winters of Vermont. After this comes the talk with my boss about how it will benefit them to let me do this, because it means I’ll stick with the job until my degree is complete, likely 3-5 years—and well, I’m annoyingly overqualified for the position.
And if it doesn’t work, I’ll look to Austin or Portland for a more stable spot, and a teaching gig, because as much as I love the community in Vermont, I have no desire to retire at a desk job; plus, the weather the last six months has been maddening.
Still, spring is on the way. It’s there, buried beneath the thin layer of April snow, so I’ll keep an open mind and keep moving forward so see what life brings.
My Year In Motion 