I love to write while I'm driving. Well, not literally write, but plot and make notes and yakety yak into my mini-cassette recorder. My guy offers sympathy when I have to drive two hours to a signing and then turn around and make the trip back home. I don't know how to tell him how much I enjoy the time alone, trying out bits of dialog out loud, pulling over on occasion to make notes if the recorder isn't handy.There is something soothing about the sound of the road under the wheels, the ever changing view, the blur of the center lines whipping, whipping, whipping by. Growing up, the long car trips I took with my mother and father were heaven. I'd lay in the back seat, staring at the ceiling of our Volkswagon bug and dream. Or, I'd stare out the window at the passing scenery ... and dream. Elaborate stories unrolled across my mental windshield for hours upon hours. I think back on that now and realize it was practice for my chosen profession of storyteller.
Right now I'm on one of the same road trips I used to take as a child: Colorado up to Montana via Wyoming to see my ninety-year-old grandmother. I've already visited with family, eaten Chester-fried chicken, stopped at the Purple Cow restaurant, and taken Grandma out to the Red Lobster for her annual dose of steamed live lobster and a baked potato as big as your head. I'm traveling with my guy, and we share the driving. The I-Pod is plugged into the FM receiver and we're headed back home. And I'm dreaming.
Does driving -- or riding -- stir your creative juices?
