Monday morning. June marine layer hanging over Southern California. Drinking stern black coffee from my new Yeti press and looking forward to finding today's words. Just back from a weekend in San Diego with Callie, where I surprised myself by not opening my laptop even once. Thanks to all of you who sent birthday wishes. I read and appreciated each one.
We were there to celebrate. The last week of May and early part of June are always a unique time. Anniversary, my birthday, then Father's Day rolls around the corner. This year there's the added fun of Taking London's publication in betwixt and between. I think all this implies we spent the weekend popping champagne corks and swinging from Gaslamp District chandeliers. To be sure, the Pendry has its fair share of champagne, including a vending machine in the lobby selling bubbly by the bottle.
But a hallmark of the way Calene and I travel is making it up as we go. Oh, there might be a brunch reservation to serve as a helpful tent pole, but for the most part we just riff.
So my Saturday birthday looked something like this: sleep late, workout with a run and stadium steps at the San Diego Convention Center, lunch at Social Tap (hot chicken sandwich, West Coast IPA). The Champion's League game was on the big screen so we stayed until it was done because the bar was full of soccer fans and there's nothing like being in a big crowded room to feel the energy as a sudden goal (or home run, or touchdown) breaks the tension and the place goes bananas. Then a little walk around downtown. Back to the room to watch some golf, because there was no track and field on TV. San Diego Bay out the window. Gorgeous view of an aircraft carrier in port. Chorizo nachos at the place on the corner. Overtipping a busker because he was making righteous music. A nightcap.
I call this birthday the Introvert's Delight. It just felt awesome to be hanging out with Calene. No agenda. Making it up as we go. She is the extrovert in our duo, so Callie kept asking if maybe we shouldn't go see a show or take a tour of someplace. Nope, I replied. This day is perfect.
Left unsaid — and this is where I sneak in the little lesson about what it means to be a writer — is that my three books never left me alone.
There's Taking London, about to be hurled out into the world, there to be loved and reviled in equal portions, as all new books are.
There's Taking Midway, which is an unusual monster, making me doubt my storytelling while daring me to boldly attempt some risky new ways to write history, all of which can plunge a creative soul into self-doubt. A stout heart and the courage of convictions are vital for telling a story like that.
Finally, there's the third book, the one waiting to be written after Midway, the one that won't tell me its name or subject yet, no matter how hard I think about it. Soon enough, it whispers. Soon enough.
"It's just you and me and all that stuff we're so scared of," Springsteen sings in "Tunnel of Love."
Sometimes celebration is chorizo nachos. Cold IPA. Watching the Canadian Open. My birthday weekend, quiet as it might sound, made me so happy to be married to someone who gets me, writing books for a living, and so very glad to be alive. Next up is celebrating Taking London. Might pop some champagne for that one.