Photo by Martin Dugard
I am twelve days into what I am euphemistically calling a "vacation." This is not a research trip or a short getaway, but a planned and prolonged two months of getting my mojo back. In the thirty-plus years of my writing career I've never taken downtime, always motivated by this debt or that mortgage payment. But I've been busy since the start of Covid, writing and researching three very intense books. Toward the end of the most recent piece, the eleventh book in the Killing series, I noticed that I was getting my punctuation wrong and missing simple misspellings. I was anxious and jumpy for no reason. So, inspired by the novelist Ann Patchett, who once wrote in a memoir that she had no problem taking several months off between books, I am taking this break. Patchett also mentioned that she had no fear of the downtime robbing her of the ability to write well once she returned. That was once an unspoken fear of mine. But this time I didn't have much choice. I just need a break.
My sons tell me I won't make it past the two-week mark.
Granted, this blog post could be proving them correct. I am, technically, writing. But I've starved the blog for so long that it's embarrassing. A few hundred words isn't the same as six hours doing the deep dive on the Occupation of Paris or the current state of ISIS.
But this brings up the point: what is a vacation?
I mean, precisely. Callie and I spent a week in the Maldives in June, pretty much waking up with the sun, lounging on the beach all day, then ending the night with a sunset gin and tonic. But that's different from what I'm attempting. My aim is to begin my day with prayer and solitude, sifting through whatever emotions come my way. Ideally, the day is spent coaching and working out, training for the Boston Marathon (76 days from now and counting). I have a new contract to write the second book in the Taking series (book one, Taking Paris, hits stores precisely forty-two days from now), but even though I enjoy the lazy reading of several books on the subject as preliminary research, I'm in no hurry to tape the long sheet of butcher paper to my office wall that marks the beginning of every book. This is where I Sharpie the chapter-by-chapter outline at eye level so that I can see where I'm headed. But as E.L. Doctorow once noted, writing a book is like driving a car at night — you can't see beyond your headlights but as long as you keep driving you'll get to where you're going.
That's a paraphrase. But the sentiment makes sense.
Back to the vacation. Lots of puttering going on now that I have free time. Yesterday, I spent the afternoon driving to Burbank, helping my son Connor move a new desk into his apartment. That's something I can't pull off when I'm in book mode. It was great to spend time with him. So the puttering is good.
More important, I think the down time is vital to finding perspective. It's been a long time since I took a step back and looked ten years down the road to see where I'd like to be. I surprised myself the other day, turning down an amazing head coaching opportunity at a highly-competitive program. It was the first time I realized that maybe coaching isn't what it once was for me. I still do it every day and love the moments, but it doesn't consume me. And I have no current interest in writing screenplays, something which surprises me. Too many meetings and too much collaboration. The voice gets lost.
Those are two things I've learned in the last twelve days. I think there's more coming. I haven't yet gotten to that quiet place which occurs during every true vacation, that sensation that the rest of the world doesn't matter for awhile and the still, small voice makes itself heard. I think this is where the dangerous thoughts make themselves known, suggesting a radical new personal challenge that brings the head, heart, and cojones into precise alignment. That voice spoke to me on a plane flying back from Hawaii a long time ago, telling me I needed to write my first book. It's the voice I heard in Lourdes, looking down at a solitary trout fighting the current in the Gave River, telling me that coaching distance runners was something I absolutely positively needed to do.
It's also the voice that told me to run Boston, even though it's been thirteen years since my last marathon. Right now it feels impossible, just like those other times I heard the voice. But I bash on, regardless. I'll get it done.
I guess if I'm really serious about vacation I'll stop compulsively checking my phone. Maybe leave one of those messages saying I'm out of pocket for the next thirty-five days and cannot be reached. I'll turn this laptop off and lose the charger. I'll forget that I own yellow legal pads on which I plan each and every day. And I'll misplace the pens with which I write those words.
I'm just thankful that I have this time. We should all have this time. I keep thinking there needs to be some special way to structure a break like this, but that's really the point — the process is not the goal. My personal scaffolding needs rebuilding. Maybe that still, small voice will not make itself heard. But I'm listening.