When I first started driving, I needed someone to be sitting with me in order to drive well. It's difficult to say why, but when someone else was with me, I was a cautious driver. When I was alone, however, I might take a hairpin curve at sixty.
Writing is like that, too. If I write here, I try real hard and stuff. If I "write a book" which some fantasy person in the faraway future is going to read, it just doesn't turn out right. I've been writing the book I promised, and... it's blah. Yucky. It has its moments, and I'm not just going to scrap the whole thing, but still. Blah.
So, this is the new plan: you are going to be in the car with me. You are going to scream if I am approaching the corner at sixty. You are going to be the observer of my electrons, and by the very act of reading, you will affect the reality of my writing.
Every Monday, I will post a new chapter to the book, which I have yet to title. It is the mostly true story of a journey I took twenty years ago from Colorado to Pennsylvania, via Greyhound bus. As the crow flies, that's 1,680 miles (2,704 kilometers) by bus. I was young and naive and silly and I wore a big white coat (my Grace Kelly coat) the whole way.
Every Monday, I will post a new chapter.
If a Monday goes by when I do not post a chapter, you may flog me until I type out those words. Or maybe just send me a sweet little reminder.
I'm still unsure if I should include pictures. Today, though, I have one. This was the original title and cover picture:
but then I changed the content. And the title doesn't fit, anymore.