I was walking through the grocery store parking lot, heading in to pick up a few supplies. Just minding my own business. A middle school kid on an e-bike swerved to miss an approaching car and braked to a sudden halt ten feet in front of me.
"How do you like my bike?" he yelled. Yelled. Like we knew each other.
It was sudden and unexpected, a character in a movie breaking the fourth wall and talking to the audience directly from the screen.
Somewhere in a New York City recording studio, a team of professionals is recording the audio version of Taking Midway. I receive periodic updates, mostly about pronunciations, though I'm on the other side of the country. I'm spending the morning doom scrolling in the chemo ward, wondering if I should wander over to the cafeteria for a bold cup of coffee or just drink the ordinary stuff from the machine. The wifi isn't so good, so I use my phone as a hotspot. In typing that last sentence I learned that hot and spot make one word instead of two.
Up at 4:40 this morning. Cross country practice scheduled for 6 in Huntington Beach, a solid 30 minute drive, so I needed the early start. Sadie wanted to go out, so I let her into the backyard and looked up into the southern sky, searching for an old friend.
There he was. Orion and his belt is missing during summer but reappears in the early morning just in time for cross country season. I'll track its march across the sky into late-November and the end of the season, the warrior constellation a timeless reminder that this is autumn.
I have this habit when I write. Just to keep myself honest, I start every day by writing down the current word count. The goal is to add 1,000 more before knocking off for the day. That's about three double-spaced pages.
I tiptoe into the manuscript, cleaning up the previous day's work to remind me where I left off. Hemingway was a big fan of not thinking about a project between the end of one day and beginning of the next, believing the subconscious would sort out any issues.
I believe this to be true.
It has been a week, my people.
The moment I realized things were getting under my skin came on Thursday evening, as I tried to park for the Springsteen show at the Forum. I went to the wrong entrance and was instructed to turn around and go back down the street to an entirely different lot. Traffic was coming from both directions. I had no choice but to make a very illegal u-turn.
The hunt has gone on for months.
Even in the middle of writing a book, the search for the next topic stalks me. In the morning as I plan the day, in those odd moments of down time, even at night, as Calene and I binge streamers (lately: Slow Horses, Reacher, Murder at the End of the World, a complete re-watch of Band of Brothers), and even as I follow the amazing travels of Cole Brauer (@ColeBrauerOceanRacing on Insta), the question of what to write next looks over my shoulder.
Unlike my friend Dan, I am perpetually underdressed. I try. Sort of. But it seems I'm always a jacket and pair of dress shoes short. As my wife told me last night after we attended a party here in New York, I tend to look like I just left track practice. Dan, on the other hand, is always pressed and shined, no matter the occasion.
