Roadblock Season

Every spring, when we're (mostly) done with snowy weather, road construction season begins. Orange traffic cones pop up as prolifically as dandelions. Unexpected road closures and detours make getting from point A to point B a little more challenging. 

This is customary and expected, and it doesn't stress me out too much, unless I'm running late. My real problem this year is that the biggest roadblock in my life right now is...

Me.

Yep, I'm standing in my own way, impeding my progress as effectively as any "road closed" sign. Have you ever driven by a highway construction zone, creeping along behind a giant RV from Oklahoma for miles and miles, and it doesn't even appear that there's any actual road work being done?

That's my writing life right now!

To stretch this road metaphor, I've found myself at the intersection of discipline and passive resistance. Every time discipline gives that polite "go ahead" wave, resistance says, "no you first, I have (insert nonessential task here) to do." And on it goes.

I have things I need to do. Thing I want to do. I'm just not doing them.

Partly, I blame the enticing spring weather, which is a most welcome relief from pandemic winter. Growing season in Colorado is fairly short, and I have been working on getting flowers and veggies planted. But most of the blame rests squarely on my not-yet-sunburned shoulders.

Time for me to dust off 2021's word of the year again. The good news is that just as every ending can inspire a new beginning, every stop can inspire a fresh start.

How's your productivity these days? Are you running into any roadblocks?

A to Z Joy: Yellowstone National Park

Established in 1872 by President Ulysses S. Grant, Yellowstone National Park is one of my favorite roadtrip stops in recent memory. We spent only a day there, and I'd love to go back and spend much longer. It is a large National Park, with tons to see and do. Because it's basically located in a volcanic crater, geothermal features abound: bubbling mud pots and geysers and mineral-rich water in otherwordly colors. Everywhere I turned, I saw something that amazed me. And because we visited in October, we missed the hordes of summer tourists.

Thanks to my husband for the pictures!

Tomorrow is the last day of the A to Z Challenge! We're almost there!

A to Z Joy: Xanadu...Homes, That Is

Last spring, my husband and I had a quick road trip getaway weekend in Taos, New Mexico. One of the local sights we visited is the Earthship development.

In the 1970s, Architect Michael Reynolds developed his "biotecture" designs for passive solar homes built of natural and upcycled materials. Empty glass bottles, dirt-filled tires, and many quirky design elements make the homes look like something from a sci-fi desert planet. The concept is still going strong, with Earthship homes all over the world.

One alternative housing project from the same era which didn't fare so well was the Xanadu Home of the Future. The homes were built with polyurethane insulation foam, which allowed for cost-effective construction. Repeated spraying of the quick-drying material onto a large, dome-shaped balloon produced a five-to-six-inch-thick shell within a few hours.

The architecture emphasized ergonomics, usability, and energy efficiency. But what made them most different from the Earthships is that they were also the first automated, computer-controlled "smart homes."

In many ways, the Xanadu homes, of which only three were built, were ahead of their time. Office spaces envisioned integrating work with home life (sound familiar, anyone?). The "electronic dietitian" in the kitchen planned balanced meals, which could be prepared at a preset time. The walls of the family room were covered with television monitors. All of the fifteen rooms (including the health spa) relied heavily on computers and electronics.

Kissimmee, Florida, 1990 (Wikipedia)

So, why are we all not living in these awesome Xanadu future-homes? The technology, controlled by Commodore microcomputers, very quickly became obsolete. Interest in the homes peaked in the 1980s, and by 1996, only one of the three homes remained as a tourist attraction in Kissimmee, Florida. It was torn down in 2005.

I'm sorry I never had a chance to live the Jetson lifestyle in a Xanadu home, but maybe this is one of those ideas that will come around again. If so, sign me up for Xanadu 2.0.

A to Z Joy: Roadtrips

My husband and I have been taking road trips together since we were newly married and too broke to afford airplane tickets. He loves to drive, and I love to ride and look out the window, so we're a perfect match. After our two sons came along, we continued road tripping, at first with giant stacks of library picture books and later with Harry Potter audio books.

We have driven through amazing parts of this country: the sparing beauty of the Southwest, the lush farmland of the Midwest, the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, through Texas and Montana and so many wide open spaces. We've crossed the Mississippi River and the Continental Divide more times than I can count. We've also been in our fair share of traffic jams, detours, and construction delays. And occasionally we get lost.

I have no problem flying, and I do appreciate that it is a much quicker way to travel a great distance. All things considered, I think my favorite trip now is a combination: fly to a destination and then drive elsewhere. A couple of summers ago, we flew as a family to San Francisco and then drove north to see the coastal redwoods. When we left the city, it was foggy and about 55 degrees F. A couple of hours later, it was 103 degrees in the middle of wine country. It's hard to experience that in an airplane.


Bonus Rs:
If you're feeling the weight of the world these days, as I am, I hope you'll get a laugh out of Randy Rainbow's tribute to New York Governor Andrew Cuomo.

A to Z Joy: Grand Canyon

The first time I saw the Grand Canyon, it was filled with a cloud. Literally. I couldn't see six feet down, let alone six thousand. Disappointed, my husband and I found a cheap motel room (there was such a thing in those days) and spent the evening playing cards and listening to the rain. We left the next morning, and, on a whim, decided to try another look. Lo and behold, the cloud was gone, and the view of the canyon was spectacular.

Carved by the Colorado River, the Grand Canyon is 277 miles long and 6,093 feet deep. In 1919, President Woodrow Wilson signed the law that established Grand Canyon National Park as the seventeenth national park in the country.

I've been back since the first visit, and of course the Grand Canyon was still spectacular. The only drawback is that I'm afraid of heights, and my palms sweat the whole time I'm anywhere near the edge. There's no chance of me falling in while trying to take a selfie!

Stacking the Stones

I am certain that the first time I saw a cairn, I didn't think it was anything other than a balanced stack of rocks. Since then, I have seen them in deserts and in forests and on beaches and in gardens. I have seen them in heavily trafficked areas and in what felt like the middle of nowhere. At some point, I learned that cairns, or human-made stacks or piles of stones, began as simple structures used to mark notable spots--burials, sites of astronomical significance, caches, and trails used by game and/or humans. They can be as large as a dwelling, or less than a foot high.

Cairns, both traditional and modern, are found all over the world, often in locations that have too few, or possibly too many, landmarks. They serve as guides for a designated route, or warnings to watch out for hazards best avoided. Some cairns have religious or mythological significance. In ancient Greece, they were associated with Hermes, the god of overland travel. In Portugal, they are known as moledros, or enchanted soldiers. An ovoo is a Mongolian ceremonial cairn used in Buddhist ceremonies. In South Korea, adding another stone to an existing cairn is said to bring good luck, a tradition thought to stem from the worship of San-shin, the Mountain Spirit. In Germany, a cairn is anthropomorphized as steinmann, or stone man.

Okay, cairns are fascinating, and I could go on about their wider significance in the world. But to me, a cairn is a simple confirmation that I am on a path to somewhere. (And because I can get lost backing out of my driveway, I need all the help I can get.) If I am alone on that path, a cairn is a sign that someone has been there before me. And because I am the type of person who would never knock a cairn down, I assume that someone will come along after me and be similarly reassured. (I do know that, in recent years, overzealous cairn-builders have wreaked some havoc in natural areas, but that is perhaps a subject for another time.)

Earlier in the summer, as I embarked on my virtual road trip, I felt that I didn't have a great idea of where I should be going. Honestly, I still feel that way. But I've realized that feeling a little bit lost makes me look even harder for clues. And the harder I look, the more likely I am to see something useful. A couple of weeks ago, for example, a member of my critique group made a general suggestion that really resonated with me. So much so that upon reflection, I decided she had put a metaphorical cairn in my path, steering me in a direction I had not considered. Maybe this course adjustment will not lead where I hope it does, but it has at least given me a sense of purpose for the next leg of my trip.

Cairns appeal to me because I love stones, but your preferred road markers may be signposts or flashing neon arrows or compass roses or dancing frogs. (I really hope it's dancing frogs.) As you go about your business, keep an eye out. When you spot one, either real or metaphorical, consider whether it confirms your direction or suggests an alternate route. Both options can be valuable. Make a choice, give it a shot, and if you don't like where you're going, turn around. The way back will be marked, too.

Ditching the Hitchhiker

Greetings from my writer's virtual road trip! I'm pleased to report that I reached my first stop, which was to complete the first draft of a speculative fiction manuscript I've had knocking about in my head for a very long time. I'm a slow and not very prolific writer, so managing to accumulate nearly 80,000 words of what my critique group has promised me is not total garbage feels like a big deal. So I spent a day or two congratulating myself.

Then the hitchhiker showed up. It played out something like this:
(twenty-something female wearing white t-shirt and jean cutoffs slides into passenger seat)
Hitchhiker: Hey, you mind if I ride along?
Me: (by nature, almost pathologically polite) Sure, if you want to. There's room.
HH: Where are we going?
Me: I'm figuring that out. I just finished the first draft of a manuscript--
HH: Cool! Tell me about it.
Me: (suddenly self-conscious) Uh, it's a sequel to a novel I wrote a while back. It takes place in a near-future Earth setting, after fires...burned...a bunch of stuff. (shuts mouth before rambling nonsensically about aliens and/or unicorns, neither of which appear in said manuscript)
HH: (brushes neon-pink bangs out of eyes) Okaaay... So, is the first book published?
Me: No.
HH: (raises pierced eyebrow) You spent months of your life writing a sequel to a book that's not even published yet?
Me: (dabs sweat from upper lip) I guess so.
HH: Why?
Me: I wanted to see if I could do the story justice.
HH: (takes a long drink of her Mountain Dew Big Gulp) So, writing is a hobby for you?
Me: Not exactly. I mean, I'd like for it to be more than that. But it's a tough business. And a lot of us who write fiction accept that we don't it for the money.
HH: Pffft. Tell that to Stephen King.
Me: (forces a smile) He's kind of a special case.
HH: And JK Rowling. And James Patterson. And Jodi--
Me: I get it. And I do have a published novel. I'm just not very good at selling books.
HH: You have a kid in college, right? And another one soon to be?
Me: (not at all surprised that she somehow knows this) Yes.
HH: Don't you think it's time to give up this writing thing and get a real job?
Me: Maybe. (bumps head on steering wheel while trying to curl up in fetal position)

This is the mental space I've been in for a week or so. Fun stuff, right? The good news is, now that I'm older and hopefully wiser, it's slightly easier for me to shrug off the negativity and see the situation with a less critical eye. Gaining perspective is helpful, too. Have you ever looked out the rear window during a road trip--after a long, gradual incline, for example--and been amazed at how far you've come without even realizing it?

Even with perspective, I haven't been able to completely ditch the hitchhiker. But now at least she's taking a nap in the back seat, giving me some peace and quiet for figuring out my route ahead.

I'm Not Lost...I Just Don't Know Where I'm Going

I know that last time, I wrote about staycations, so forgive me if this post feels contradictory and/or redundant. But summer is road trip season, which has me reflecting on how fun it is to pack up the car and go exploring, despite my horrible sense of direction. Even with GPS and all the phone navigation apps, I can and do get lost. I read a news story a few years ago about a group of tourists who drove into the ocean because their GPS told them to, and I could completely relate.

For me, there are two ways of feeling lost: not knowing where I am, and not knowing where I’m going. Sometimes they coincide, but not always. Last week, I realized that I’m aware of where I am and what’s keeping me busy, but I’m really not sure which direction I need to be heading. I’m feeling lost in a different sense. The “what am I doing with my life?” sense.

Partly this comes from being overcommitted. You know, when you’re busy with a hundred different things and feel like you’re not doing any of them justice? It’s very destabilizing and is starting to make me stressed-out and grouchy. So, I decided I should take myself on a metaphorical summer road trip and was amazed at how framing my problem in this way immediately made me feel more in control.

First, I need to map my route. I’ll spare you the boring details, but this basically entails breaking down my summer writing goals into a series of achievable steps. That’s not so hard, right? Add in a couple of side trips and stay flexible for detours, and barring any major breakdowns, I will be much farther along than if I stay put where I am, spinning my wheels.

Next, I should decide what to take. In addition to my own works-in-progress, I'll throw in a couple of novels I’ve been wanting to read, a memoir written by a friend, and a complete compilation of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Wine, sure. (Sangria, maybe, as it is 98°F at my house today.) Chocolate, of course. And, hopefully, equal parts creativity and problem-solving.

Now, what not to bring. That matters, too. Taking a parka to Las Vegas in July, for example, is wasted effort and space. So, I'm sorry, social media. You don’t make the cut. I’ll check in once in a while so you know I'm alive and well, but you aren’t going to ride shotgun with me, sidetracking my mental energy. Same for you, online news outlets. Mindless scrolling through articles that somehow change every day but don’t change at all is not the best use of my time right now. It will all be there when I get back.

The point of this “trip” is to get my writing squared away, so it doesn’t matter than I won’t get much farther than my driveway. As my new blogger friend Karen of Profound Journey put it, writing is more an inner journey than an outer one. (Honestly, go visit Karen's blog if you haven't already. She will inspire you for all kinds of journeys!) 

What would you pack for your metaphorical road trip? What would you leave behind?