Adam Holt's Blog, page 7
January 26, 2016
Paris, Part II: Braving the Hostel
As a rule, I spend money on meals, museums, monuments rather than lodging. Thus, we didn't stay in a hotel in Paris. We stayed in one of its best hostels.
FIRST, THE RAMBLE...
I've had a few negative experiences in hostels but nothing terrible. Not like in the recent ridiculous horror franchise, where hostel visitors regularly loose body parts. Between Hostel and Liam Neeson's Taken series, you'd think Europe is one giant house of horror ready to rob unsuspecting Americans of all they hold sacred.
Hollywood, of course, misses the mark. The real danger in a hostel is the five snoring Germans. Really, one snoring German is enough to induce insomnia, but five? Well, that will damage handheld electronics and cause irreparable hearing damage.
But we dodged the bullet this time. No one stole my wallet or my spleen. My phone still worked like a charm, and not a single German nosewhistler disturbed the peace.
...NEXT, THE REVIEW...
The Generator is tidy, trendy, organized, and secure, with a French bouncer the size of Suge Knight at the door to check everyone's ID. It's also 8.5/10 on Booking.com, which is "very good" in Booking's rating system. I concur.
Voilá...
...et voici.
The Generator hostels houses almost a thousand people every night in all sort of sleeping configurations. You can grab a bunk bed in a 12-person room for $25/night. A double room with views of Monmartre and the Eiffel Tower will run you $100. We booked beds in a 6-person room. I got a Genius discount, so that was $22/night. Heck, that's the price of a decent meal. Try to book a hotel for that in the States and the bed might vibrate. You won't feel it though because you'll be in so much pain from the spleen you just lost.
Anyway, the rooms are relatively quiet, but downstairs is another story. The place bustles 9am-2am. There's a bar/night club in the basement, a cafe w/foosball table at ground level, and on the 9th floor a restaurant terrace with views of Monmartre and the Canal St.-Martin. The terrace was closed on our off-season trip, but in the spring/summer I would probably stay there all night. Walking tours of the Cité leave daily at 10am. It's on Place du Colonel Fabien, which has a metro stop. Access = parfait.
A hostel is a community. It's where you meet the world. In our room were four Korean students and a Moroccan in town for a few days. We traded accounts of our travels and our cultures.
We hit it off with one of the Korean students. He loved sports. James and I kept him entertained for a good fifteen minutes, debating whether Steph Curry or LeBron James is the better player. Then we talked travel. He showed us his terrific photos of Mt. Saint-Michel and gave me a packet of amazing Korean BBQ sauce. Then he told me he is studying electrical engineering. "I want to work for NASA," he told me.
Well, shoot, son! Say no more.
We talked about space for a good thirty minutes. When I left the next morning, way before sunrise, I left him copies of both my books - I brought a few with me to Europe for just such an event. He replied a few hours later, thanking me for the books and the conversations. Traffic on that street goes both ways, my friend.
So, if you're Lone Star Rambling and not on your honeymoon or anniversary, if you can overcome your cultural prejudices and sleep in a room beside perfect strangers, some of whom wind up being kindred spirits, then Generator Hostel is for you.
FIRST, THE RAMBLE...
I've had a few negative experiences in hostels but nothing terrible. Not like in the recent ridiculous horror franchise, where hostel visitors regularly loose body parts. Between Hostel and Liam Neeson's Taken series, you'd think Europe is one giant house of horror ready to rob unsuspecting Americans of all they hold sacred.
Hollywood, of course, misses the mark. The real danger in a hostel is the five snoring Germans. Really, one snoring German is enough to induce insomnia, but five? Well, that will damage handheld electronics and cause irreparable hearing damage.
But we dodged the bullet this time. No one stole my wallet or my spleen. My phone still worked like a charm, and not a single German nosewhistler disturbed the peace.
...NEXT, THE REVIEW...
The Generator is tidy, trendy, organized, and secure, with a French bouncer the size of Suge Knight at the door to check everyone's ID. It's also 8.5/10 on Booking.com, which is "very good" in Booking's rating system. I concur.
Voilá...
...et voici.The Generator hostels houses almost a thousand people every night in all sort of sleeping configurations. You can grab a bunk bed in a 12-person room for $25/night. A double room with views of Monmartre and the Eiffel Tower will run you $100. We booked beds in a 6-person room. I got a Genius discount, so that was $22/night. Heck, that's the price of a decent meal. Try to book a hotel for that in the States and the bed might vibrate. You won't feel it though because you'll be in so much pain from the spleen you just lost.
Anyway, the rooms are relatively quiet, but downstairs is another story. The place bustles 9am-2am. There's a bar/night club in the basement, a cafe w/foosball table at ground level, and on the 9th floor a restaurant terrace with views of Monmartre and the Canal St.-Martin. The terrace was closed on our off-season trip, but in the spring/summer I would probably stay there all night. Walking tours of the Cité leave daily at 10am. It's on Place du Colonel Fabien, which has a metro stop. Access = parfait.
A hostel is a community. It's where you meet the world. In our room were four Korean students and a Moroccan in town for a few days. We traded accounts of our travels and our cultures.
We hit it off with one of the Korean students. He loved sports. James and I kept him entertained for a good fifteen minutes, debating whether Steph Curry or LeBron James is the better player. Then we talked travel. He showed us his terrific photos of Mt. Saint-Michel and gave me a packet of amazing Korean BBQ sauce. Then he told me he is studying electrical engineering. "I want to work for NASA," he told me.
Well, shoot, son! Say no more.
We talked about space for a good thirty minutes. When I left the next morning, way before sunrise, I left him copies of both my books - I brought a few with me to Europe for just such an event. He replied a few hours later, thanking me for the books and the conversations. Traffic on that street goes both ways, my friend.
So, if you're Lone Star Rambling and not on your honeymoon or anniversary, if you can overcome your cultural prejudices and sleep in a room beside perfect strangers, some of whom wind up being kindred spirits, then Generator Hostel is for you.
January 25, 2016
Paris Chapter 1: You Walk in Diamonds...
Crypte Archeologique at Notre Dame
In the square of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, under the selfie-stick wielding hoards in search of their perfect selfie selves, stands the inconspicuous entrance to an underground realm. This subterranean museum houses the remains of something altogether un-Parisian.
The remains of an ancient city, the city of Lutèce (Lutetia in Latin).
An assuming entrance: the gap between the stones
next to the second lamp post is the entrance to the crypte.A thousand years before Notre-Dame took shape, Lutèce was Paris's first incarnation, a settlement on an island in the middle of the Seine River. It was a perfect stronghold and a lucrative trading outpost. This museum explores this history, combining excavated material alongside 3-D renderings of the cathedral and, more distantly, the Roman baths that once occupied the "Île de la Cité." It's worth a visit.
(Video: Me messing with the 3D video of Notre-Dame. James filming.)
My mind wanders underground amid the ruins of Rome's version of Paris. A Paris that could have been. Rome, who planned to conquer the world and establish a Pax Romana that would last forever. They got halfway there. They built with that thought in mind.
What would Paris look like if they achieved their vision? Above me, in place of Notre-Dame tourists would take a dip in the ancient thermal baths. They could head to the arena on the outskirts of town. The remains of an arena still stands there. If Rome ruled, it might still stand in all its glory, housing football matches and gladiator combat. Would those tourists take the metro to reach it? Take a train? Would they pass an Eiffel Tower? Would a Mona Lisa hang in some alternate version of the Louvre?
But the Romans didn't plan for Goths and Dark Ages.
We all have Goths and Dark Ages in our lives, I suppose.
Above me in the square, a threadbare old man tosses crumbs to pigeons. Tourists snap his photo: this act earns him immortality. And he is not the first old man to earn immortality for this simple act. Others went before him. They fed pigeons, smiled at tourists, lived, and died. Other tourists, other pigeons in other times.
Other versions of me have stood beneath the street and pondered the great and small cycles of life as well. More old men, pigeons, tourists, and wandering writers will fill our places when we vacate them. I hope they appreciate the links between past, present, and future. It gives the space in which we exist a comfortable, worn-in feel. Not like old shoes. More like a diamond set in several different crowns -- repurposed yet eternally invaluable. In this vision, this version of all things that I cup in my hands beneath the street, the old man is a king. In front of his pigeons he casts flakes of gold.
You there, reading these words, can you see the motion of his hand?
There's beauty in the transient nature of all things. There's beauty in the vision you have for your life and yourself. At least there should be. Whether you feed pigeons, raise children, study insects, or rule kingdoms, you walk in diamonds and cup gold in your hands.
The Goths and Dark Ages may come. They may alter your plans. They may rob you, burn down your bridges, or give you cancer. Still, it's worth striving to build something eternally significant in spite of them. It will be eternally significant to you, and if life continues beyond this one, and I believe it does, all those pigeons the man fed, all the thoughts we weave together in the dark places and the light, all these stones that rose and fell and cracked and split, we shall find risen in glory on the other side of some final tomorrow that few have glimpsed but none have seen.
So beats my heart beneath the streets of Paris. So run my thoughts beneath Notre-Dame. There in Lutetia, the city that was, is, and will be.
In the square of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, under the selfie-stick wielding hoards in search of their perfect selfie selves, stands the inconspicuous entrance to an underground realm. This subterranean museum houses the remains of something altogether un-Parisian.
The remains of an ancient city, the city of Lutèce (Lutetia in Latin).
An assuming entrance: the gap between the stonesnext to the second lamp post is the entrance to the crypte.A thousand years before Notre-Dame took shape, Lutèce was Paris's first incarnation, a settlement on an island in the middle of the Seine River. It was a perfect stronghold and a lucrative trading outpost. This museum explores this history, combining excavated material alongside 3-D renderings of the cathedral and, more distantly, the Roman baths that once occupied the "Île de la Cité." It's worth a visit.
(Video: Me messing with the 3D video of Notre-Dame. James filming.)
My mind wanders underground amid the ruins of Rome's version of Paris. A Paris that could have been. Rome, who planned to conquer the world and establish a Pax Romana that would last forever. They got halfway there. They built with that thought in mind.
What would Paris look like if they achieved their vision? Above me, in place of Notre-Dame tourists would take a dip in the ancient thermal baths. They could head to the arena on the outskirts of town. The remains of an arena still stands there. If Rome ruled, it might still stand in all its glory, housing football matches and gladiator combat. Would those tourists take the metro to reach it? Take a train? Would they pass an Eiffel Tower? Would a Mona Lisa hang in some alternate version of the Louvre?
But the Romans didn't plan for Goths and Dark Ages.
We all have Goths and Dark Ages in our lives, I suppose.
Above me in the square, a threadbare old man tosses crumbs to pigeons. Tourists snap his photo: this act earns him immortality. And he is not the first old man to earn immortality for this simple act. Others went before him. They fed pigeons, smiled at tourists, lived, and died. Other tourists, other pigeons in other times.
Other versions of me have stood beneath the street and pondered the great and small cycles of life as well. More old men, pigeons, tourists, and wandering writers will fill our places when we vacate them. I hope they appreciate the links between past, present, and future. It gives the space in which we exist a comfortable, worn-in feel. Not like old shoes. More like a diamond set in several different crowns -- repurposed yet eternally invaluable. In this vision, this version of all things that I cup in my hands beneath the street, the old man is a king. In front of his pigeons he casts flakes of gold.
You there, reading these words, can you see the motion of his hand?
There's beauty in the transient nature of all things. There's beauty in the vision you have for your life and yourself. At least there should be. Whether you feed pigeons, raise children, study insects, or rule kingdoms, you walk in diamonds and cup gold in your hands.
The Goths and Dark Ages may come. They may alter your plans. They may rob you, burn down your bridges, or give you cancer. Still, it's worth striving to build something eternally significant in spite of them. It will be eternally significant to you, and if life continues beyond this one, and I believe it does, all those pigeons the man fed, all the thoughts we weave together in the dark places and the light, all these stones that rose and fell and cracked and split, we shall find risen in glory on the other side of some final tomorrow that few have glimpsed but none have seen.
So beats my heart beneath the streets of Paris. So run my thoughts beneath Notre-Dame. There in Lutetia, the city that was, is, and will be.
Paris Part 1: You Walk in Diamonds...
Crypte Archeologique at Notre Dame
In the square of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, under the selfie-stick wielding hoards in search of their perfect selfie selves, stands the inconspicuous entrance to an underground realm. This subterranean museum houses the remains of something altogether un-Parisian.
The remains of an ancient city, the city of Lutèce (Lutetia in Latin).
An assuming entrance: the gap between the stones
next to the second lamp post is the entrance to the crypte.A thousand years before Notre-Dame took shape, Lutèce was Paris's first incarnation, a settlement on an island in the middle of the Seine River. It was a perfect stronghold and a lucrative trading outpost. This museum explores this history, combining excavated material alongside 3-D renderings of the cathedral and, more distantly, the Roman baths that once occupied the "Île de la Cité." It's worth a visit.
(Video: Me messing with the 3D video of Notre-Dame. James filming.)
My mind wanders underground amid the ruins of Rome's version of Paris. A Paris that could have been. Rome, who planned to conquer the world and establish a Pax Romana that would last forever. They got halfway there. They built with that thought in mind.
What would Paris look like if they achieved their vision? Above me, in place of Notre-Dame tourists would take a dip in the ancient thermal baths. They could head to the arena on the outskirts of town. The remains of an arena still stands there. If Rome ruled, it might still stand in all its glory, housing football matches and gladiator combat. Would those tourists take the metro to reach it? Take a train? Would they pass an Eiffel Tower? Would a Mona Lisa hang in some alternate version of the Louvre?
But the Romans didn't plan for Goths and Dark Ages.
We all have Goths and Dark Ages in our lives, I suppose.
Above me in the square, a threadbare old man tosses crumbs to pigeons. Tourists snap his photo: this act earns him immortality. And he is not the first old man to earn immortality for this simple act. Others went before him. They fed pigeons, smiled at tourists, lived, and died. Other tourists, other pigeons in other times.
Other versions of me have stood beneath the street and pondered the great and small cycles of life as well. More old men, pigeons, tourists, and wandering writers will fill our places when we vacate them. I hope they appreciate the links between past, present, and future. It gives the space in which we exist a comfortable, worn-in feel. Not like old shoes. More like a diamond set in several different crowns -- repurposed yet eternally invaluable. In this vision, this version of all things that I cup in my hands beneath the street, the old man is a king. In front of his pigeons he casts flakes of gold.
You there, reading these words, can you see the motion of his hand?
There's beauty in the transient nature of all things. There's beauty in the vision you have for your life and yourself. At least there should be. Whether you feed pigeons, raise children, study insects, or rule kingdoms, you walk in diamonds and cup gold in your hands.
The Goths and Dark Ages may come. They may alter your plans. They may rob you, burn down your bridges, or give you cancer. Still, it's worth striving to build something eternally significant in spite of them. It will be eternally significant to you, and if life continues beyond this one, and I believe it does, all those pigeons the man fed, all the thoughts we weave together in the dark places and the light, all these stones that rose and fell and cracked and split, we shall find risen in glory on the other side of some final tomorrow that few have glimpsed but none have seen.
So beats my heart beneath the streets of Paris. So run my thoughts beneath Notre-Dame. There in Lutetia, the city that was, is, and will be.
In the square of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, under the selfie-stick wielding hoards in search of their perfect selfie selves, stands the inconspicuous entrance to an underground realm. This subterranean museum houses the remains of something altogether un-Parisian.
The remains of an ancient city, the city of Lutèce (Lutetia in Latin).
An assuming entrance: the gap between the stonesnext to the second lamp post is the entrance to the crypte.A thousand years before Notre-Dame took shape, Lutèce was Paris's first incarnation, a settlement on an island in the middle of the Seine River. It was a perfect stronghold and a lucrative trading outpost. This museum explores this history, combining excavated material alongside 3-D renderings of the cathedral and, more distantly, the Roman baths that once occupied the "Île de la Cité." It's worth a visit.
(Video: Me messing with the 3D video of Notre-Dame. James filming.)
My mind wanders underground amid the ruins of Rome's version of Paris. A Paris that could have been. Rome, who planned to conquer the world and establish a Pax Romana that would last forever. They got halfway there. They built with that thought in mind.
What would Paris look like if they achieved their vision? Above me, in place of Notre-Dame tourists would take a dip in the ancient thermal baths. They could head to the arena on the outskirts of town. The remains of an arena still stands there. If Rome ruled, it might still stand in all its glory, housing football matches and gladiator combat. Would those tourists take the metro to reach it? Take a train? Would they pass an Eiffel Tower? Would a Mona Lisa hang in some alternate version of the Louvre?
But the Romans didn't plan for Goths and Dark Ages.
We all have Goths and Dark Ages in our lives, I suppose.
Above me in the square, a threadbare old man tosses crumbs to pigeons. Tourists snap his photo: this act earns him immortality. And he is not the first old man to earn immortality for this simple act. Others went before him. They fed pigeons, smiled at tourists, lived, and died. Other tourists, other pigeons in other times.
Other versions of me have stood beneath the street and pondered the great and small cycles of life as well. More old men, pigeons, tourists, and wandering writers will fill our places when we vacate them. I hope they appreciate the links between past, present, and future. It gives the space in which we exist a comfortable, worn-in feel. Not like old shoes. More like a diamond set in several different crowns -- repurposed yet eternally invaluable. In this vision, this version of all things that I cup in my hands beneath the street, the old man is a king. In front of his pigeons he casts flakes of gold.
You there, reading these words, can you see the motion of his hand?
There's beauty in the transient nature of all things. There's beauty in the vision you have for your life and yourself. At least there should be. Whether you feed pigeons, raise children, study insects, or rule kingdoms, you walk in diamonds and cup gold in your hands.
The Goths and Dark Ages may come. They may alter your plans. They may rob you, burn down your bridges, or give you cancer. Still, it's worth striving to build something eternally significant in spite of them. It will be eternally significant to you, and if life continues beyond this one, and I believe it does, all those pigeons the man fed, all the thoughts we weave together in the dark places and the light, all these stones that rose and fell and cracked and split, we shall find risen in glory on the other side of some final tomorrow that few have glimpsed but none have seen.
So beats my heart beneath the streets of Paris. So run my thoughts beneath Notre-Dame. There in Lutetia, the city that was, is, and will be.
You Walk in Diamonds and Cup Gold in Your Hands: Paris Part 1
Crypte Archeologique at Notre Dame
In the square of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, under the selfie-stick wielding hoards in search of their perfect selfie selves, stands the inconspicuous entrance to an underground realm. This subterranean museum houses the remains of something altogether un-Parisian.
The remains of an ancient city, the city of Lutèce (Lutetia in Latin).
An assuming entrance: the gap between the stones
next to the second lamp post is the entrance to the crypte.A thousand years before Notre-Dame took shape, Lutèce was Paris's first incarnation, a settlement on an island in the middle of the Seine River. It was a perfect stronghold and a lucrative trading outpost. This museum explores this history, combining excavated material alongside 3-D renderings of the cathedral and, more distantly, the Roman baths that once occupied the "Île de la Cité." It's worth a visit.
(Video: Me messing with the 3D video of Notre-Dame. James filming.)
My mind wanders underground amid the ruins of Rome's version of Paris. A Paris that could have been. Rome, who planned to conquer the world and establish a Pax Romana that would last forever. They got halfway there. They built with that thought in mind.
What would Paris look like if they achieved their vision? Above me, in place of Notre-Dame tourists would take a dip in the ancient thermal baths. They could head to the arena on the outskirts of town. The remains of an arena still stands there. If Rome ruled, it might still stand in all its glory, housing football matches and gladiator combat. Would those tourists take the metro to reach it? Take a train? Would they pass an Eiffel Tower? Would a Mona Lisa hang in some alternate version of the Louvre?
But the Romans didn't plan for Goths and Dark Ages.
We all have Goths and Dark Ages in our lives, I suppose.
Above me in the square, a threadbare old man tosses crumbs to pigeons. Tourists snap his photo: this act earns him immortality. And he is not the first old man to earn immortality for this simple act. Others went before him. They fed pigeons, smiled at tourists, lived, and died. Other tourists, other pigeons in other times.
Other versions of me have stood beneath the street and pondered the great and small cycles of life as well. More old men, pigeons, tourists, and wandering writers will fill our places when we vacate them. I hope they appreciate the links between past, present, and future. It gives the space in which we exist a comfortable, worn-in feel. Not like old shoes. More like a diamond set in several different crowns -- repurposed yet eternally invaluable. In this vision, this version of all things that I cup in my hands beneath the street, the old man is a king. In front of his pigeons he casts flakes of gold.
You there, reading these words, can you see the motion of his hand?
There's beauty in the transient nature of all things. There's beauty in the vision you have for your life and yourself. At least there should be. Whether you feed pigeons, raise children, study insects, or rule kingdoms, you walk in diamonds and cup gold in your hands.
The Goths and Dark Ages may come. They may alter your plans. They may rob you, burn down your bridges, or give you cancer. Still, it's worth striving to build something eternally significant in spite of them. It will be eternally significant to you, and if life continues beyond this one, and I believe it does, all those pigeons the man fed, all the thoughts we weave together in the dark places and the light, all these stones that rose and fell and cracked and split, we shall find risen in glory on the other side of some final tomorrow that few have glimpsed but none have seen.
So beats my heart beneath the streets of Paris. So run my thoughts beneath Notre-Dame. There in Lutetia, the city that was, is, and will be.
In the square of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, under the selfie-stick wielding hoards in search of their perfect selfie selves, stands the inconspicuous entrance to an underground realm. This subterranean museum houses the remains of something altogether un-Parisian.
The remains of an ancient city, the city of Lutèce (Lutetia in Latin).
An assuming entrance: the gap between the stonesnext to the second lamp post is the entrance to the crypte.A thousand years before Notre-Dame took shape, Lutèce was Paris's first incarnation, a settlement on an island in the middle of the Seine River. It was a perfect stronghold and a lucrative trading outpost. This museum explores this history, combining excavated material alongside 3-D renderings of the cathedral and, more distantly, the Roman baths that once occupied the "Île de la Cité." It's worth a visit.
(Video: Me messing with the 3D video of Notre-Dame. James filming.)
My mind wanders underground amid the ruins of Rome's version of Paris. A Paris that could have been. Rome, who planned to conquer the world and establish a Pax Romana that would last forever. They got halfway there. They built with that thought in mind.
What would Paris look like if they achieved their vision? Above me, in place of Notre-Dame tourists would take a dip in the ancient thermal baths. They could head to the arena on the outskirts of town. The remains of an arena still stands there. If Rome ruled, it might still stand in all its glory, housing football matches and gladiator combat. Would those tourists take the metro to reach it? Take a train? Would they pass an Eiffel Tower? Would a Mona Lisa hang in some alternate version of the Louvre?
But the Romans didn't plan for Goths and Dark Ages.
We all have Goths and Dark Ages in our lives, I suppose.
Above me in the square, a threadbare old man tosses crumbs to pigeons. Tourists snap his photo: this act earns him immortality. And he is not the first old man to earn immortality for this simple act. Others went before him. They fed pigeons, smiled at tourists, lived, and died. Other tourists, other pigeons in other times.
Other versions of me have stood beneath the street and pondered the great and small cycles of life as well. More old men, pigeons, tourists, and wandering writers will fill our places when we vacate them. I hope they appreciate the links between past, present, and future. It gives the space in which we exist a comfortable, worn-in feel. Not like old shoes. More like a diamond set in several different crowns -- repurposed yet eternally invaluable. In this vision, this version of all things that I cup in my hands beneath the street, the old man is a king. In front of his pigeons he casts flakes of gold.
You there, reading these words, can you see the motion of his hand?
There's beauty in the transient nature of all things. There's beauty in the vision you have for your life and yourself. At least there should be. Whether you feed pigeons, raise children, study insects, or rule kingdoms, you walk in diamonds and cup gold in your hands.
The Goths and Dark Ages may come. They may alter your plans. They may rob you, burn down your bridges, or give you cancer. Still, it's worth striving to build something eternally significant in spite of them. It will be eternally significant to you, and if life continues beyond this one, and I believe it does, all those pigeons the man fed, all the thoughts we weave together in the dark places and the light, all these stones that rose and fell and cracked and split, we shall find risen in glory on the other side of some final tomorrow that few have glimpsed but none have seen.
So beats my heart beneath the streets of Paris. So run my thoughts beneath Notre-Dame. There in Lutetia, the city that was, is, and will be.
January 14, 2016
Headed to Paris Next Week!
(*Start reading after the meme of David Bowie if you want to avoid my wordy wandering monologue.)
Good news.
The last time I checked my Kindle Author Page, I'm not outselling JK Rowling (RIP Alan Rickman, great Slitherin), CS Lewis, or JRR Martin. Granted, thousands of people are reading my Tully Harper books. I'm thrilled about that as well as the prospects for 2016, but I don't see the entire continental United States going roasters for Tully Harper quite yet. Maybe what stands between me and those other ten million readers are my initials. So do your part. Feel free to call me AW Holt this year, dear conspirator. It couldn't hurt.
Now, if AW Holt were outselling those three, he would certainly travel more. Nothing inspires creativity like a scenic view coupled with the prospect of not doing laundry for weeks at a time. (*My "wrinkle-free" pants despise my ambitions as a writer. They conspire against me frequently. Just ask them next time you see one of them.) At any rate, even though I haven't sold a zillion copies yet, and seeing as how travel is a useful thing for me as a writer and human being, and since I've set aside some money for justifiable journeys, then I henceforth declare this:
Winter travel season is now open.
Thanks, David Bowie. We'll miss you. Darkstar is a beautiful song to leave us with. Now that my rambling intro is out of the way, here's the actual good news.
The Lone Star Rambler, this blog, heads back to its roots the next few weeks because its author has good friends. Namely, a friend with a Delta buddy pass who wants to see Paris, the City of Light. He asks me to be his buddy. A cheap trip to Paris in the off-season. How could I say no?
I like traveling on a budget. It makes for good stories. We will be flying standby.
Standby is the traveller's roulette wheel. A good roll and you're flying business class with short layovers and reclining seats. Roll wrong and you end up in economy, re-routed through some exotic location -- say, Minneapolis or Cleveland -- before winging it across the Atlantic. Roll even worse and you're stuck in the Mall of America for a day, wallowing in your second Cinnabon. In this case, my buddy worked for the airlines. He knows how and when to roll the dice well. Winter travel improves our odds. Still, we roll the dice. The Cinnabon looms.
But rolling the dice is what worthwhile traveling, rather than vacationing, is all about. There's a time for the family trip to Disney Land and Schlitterbahn. Your beach house rental certainly has its place. The sure bet. The easy road.
But this is not that time or place. It's the dead of winter. Everyone is back at work, but there it is -- a hostel with a bed with your name on it. An opportunity to travel and work on that third Tully Harper novel along the way. You've even set some of the scenes for this one in Paris. But, wait, who's in the bunk above you? Is he going to snore like the four Germans from the last hostel? Darn those four Germans. They shook windowpanes. Will he be that bad? It's unclear.
Winged Victory.What is clear is this: I don't care if it's econo or business, I don't mind if the Germans snore. I just want to see the Winged Victory in the Louvre again and write for a day in a café like Les Deux Magots. And if I can give my friend a tour of a city I love while on this justifiable journey of writing, then so be it. Let's roll the dice and see what the roulette wheel says. As long as my nefarious pants don't foil this scheme, and that second Cinnabon doesn't thwart my plans, I'll be in Paris next week.
Good news.
The last time I checked my Kindle Author Page, I'm not outselling JK Rowling (RIP Alan Rickman, great Slitherin), CS Lewis, or JRR Martin. Granted, thousands of people are reading my Tully Harper books. I'm thrilled about that as well as the prospects for 2016, but I don't see the entire continental United States going roasters for Tully Harper quite yet. Maybe what stands between me and those other ten million readers are my initials. So do your part. Feel free to call me AW Holt this year, dear conspirator. It couldn't hurt.
Now, if AW Holt were outselling those three, he would certainly travel more. Nothing inspires creativity like a scenic view coupled with the prospect of not doing laundry for weeks at a time. (*My "wrinkle-free" pants despise my ambitions as a writer. They conspire against me frequently. Just ask them next time you see one of them.) At any rate, even though I haven't sold a zillion copies yet, and seeing as how travel is a useful thing for me as a writer and human being, and since I've set aside some money for justifiable journeys, then I henceforth declare this:
Winter travel season is now open.
Thanks, David Bowie. We'll miss you. Darkstar is a beautiful song to leave us with. Now that my rambling intro is out of the way, here's the actual good news.
The Lone Star Rambler, this blog, heads back to its roots the next few weeks because its author has good friends. Namely, a friend with a Delta buddy pass who wants to see Paris, the City of Light. He asks me to be his buddy. A cheap trip to Paris in the off-season. How could I say no?
I like traveling on a budget. It makes for good stories. We will be flying standby.
Standby is the traveller's roulette wheel. A good roll and you're flying business class with short layovers and reclining seats. Roll wrong and you end up in economy, re-routed through some exotic location -- say, Minneapolis or Cleveland -- before winging it across the Atlantic. Roll even worse and you're stuck in the Mall of America for a day, wallowing in your second Cinnabon. In this case, my buddy worked for the airlines. He knows how and when to roll the dice well. Winter travel improves our odds. Still, we roll the dice. The Cinnabon looms.
But rolling the dice is what worthwhile traveling, rather than vacationing, is all about. There's a time for the family trip to Disney Land and Schlitterbahn. Your beach house rental certainly has its place. The sure bet. The easy road.
But this is not that time or place. It's the dead of winter. Everyone is back at work, but there it is -- a hostel with a bed with your name on it. An opportunity to travel and work on that third Tully Harper novel along the way. You've even set some of the scenes for this one in Paris. But, wait, who's in the bunk above you? Is he going to snore like the four Germans from the last hostel? Darn those four Germans. They shook windowpanes. Will he be that bad? It's unclear.
Winged Victory.What is clear is this: I don't care if it's econo or business, I don't mind if the Germans snore. I just want to see the Winged Victory in the Louvre again and write for a day in a café like Les Deux Magots. And if I can give my friend a tour of a city I love while on this justifiable journey of writing, then so be it. Let's roll the dice and see what the roulette wheel says. As long as my nefarious pants don't foil this scheme, and that second Cinnabon doesn't thwart my plans, I'll be in Paris next week.January 8, 2016
FORGOT TO HIT PUBLISH! Just the pics - Space Center Book Launch!
This is from last year's book launch at Space Center Houston! I forgot to hit publish, so here we have it - a few choice pictures from the launch party, which was the highlight of my year.
What a day...80+ at the launch party.
Let's start with the after party at Landry's. Perfect weather and a seagull with perfect timing over Geneva's head. Showing the Dallasites a good time was fantastic.
Our view from the room overlooking the main plaza at Space Center Houston.
After the event, taking a moment to take it in......the view. We had a great backdrop of Space Center Houston's main plaza and the ISS.
A wonderful friend/reader/librarian who made the trip to the launch. I had a great time visiting her school, Uplift North Hills.
Some good questions as I was signing. Some about writing, some about the book.
Seeing your books in someone's hands is a delight.
The people who made the launch tick - Kim and Danny. Lots of other folks to thank, but in person, not on the blog.
Enough blogging. Back to work. - A
What a day...80+ at the launch party.
Let's start with the after party at Landry's. Perfect weather and a seagull with perfect timing over Geneva's head. Showing the Dallasites a good time was fantastic.
Our view from the room overlooking the main plaza at Space Center Houston.
After the event, taking a moment to take it in......the view. We had a great backdrop of Space Center Houston's main plaza and the ISS.
A wonderful friend/reader/librarian who made the trip to the launch. I had a great time visiting her school, Uplift North Hills.
Some good questions as I was signing. Some about writing, some about the book.
Seeing your books in someone's hands is a delight.
The people who made the launch tick - Kim and Danny. Lots of other folks to thank, but in person, not on the blog.Enough blogging. Back to work. - A
January 7, 2016
Grading Papers, General Slog, and the Glimmer of Perfection
"It's better to arrive on time than to arrive late because you're chasing a particular notion of perfection." - Note I wrote on a student's final exam paper.
This fall I took a long-term substitute position at the school where I coach. It was a three month commitment. One of the teachers left on maternity leave, so I took over her two English classes for a few months. It was good to be back in the classroom and nice showing up to school at 10am and leaving by 1:30 everyday. It gave me time to keep writing, and in a perfect world, I would have been writing my third Tully Harper novel this fall. I should have been writing my third novel. But I wasn't. And I didn't.
Here's what happened: I played a lot of volleyball. I stayed out late on weeknights with friends. Okay, that happened but it's not what made me stop.*
What made me stop writing the novel was I stopped writing the novel. At first I told myself I was taking some time off "to process." Processing, it turns out, looks a lot like procrastination when I do it. Processing included research and outlining -- necessary work for a writer. So, after several weeks of processing, when I did sit down to write again, the story didn't come out right. It worked in my head but not on paper. So I dreamed up new ideas but didn't update my outline. I took notes but didn't write chapters because they felt...off. Gone were the glimmers of perfection amid the general slog. Gone were the fevered all-nighters where I knocked out 5,000 words in a sitting. I expect the general slog when I write, but I need those glimmers of perfection and authorial heroism to keep moving forward. The glimmer and heroism didn't appear.
So National November Writing Month rolled around. Hoping to finish my first draft in a month, I announced I would do just that; however, I couldn't sit myself down to do the work. Every word I wrote felt faulty. Every sentence a derailment. Every paragraph a train wreck. Anxiety crept into my writing life. Day flew by without hitting my word count. Finally, realizing I would have to write 10,000 words a day, I threw in the towel. NaNoWriMo defeated me. At the end of the month, I had scarcely 30,000 words toward my next novel. Just think of it: all those words and none of them see to be the right ones.
As a novelist, I was a bit of a mess.
In December, after a few more weeks of "processing," I tentatively got back to work on the Tully Harper Series. Just dipping my toes in the water, trying to figure out if I could acclimate to the cold of a first draft again.
I got back to writing the novel this week, in part because of the note I wrote on a student's paper.
"It's better to arrive on time than to arrive late because you're chasing a particular notion of perfection."
Today I added that quote to the comments section of a student's final paper. He's a talented writer. He wrote a wonderful essay. I loved teaching him. And to me the problem was clear: he wanted to write a perfect paper for his final exam, but he didn't have time with everything else going on at school and in life. So he submitted the paper a week late. He couldn't bring himself to finalize until then.
Nevertheless, my guess is that his essay would have been only good to great if he had submitted it on time.
I imagined him polishing each paragraph to a high sheen, spending hours on the first body paragraph when he hadn't yet written the second one yet. He spent all his time polishing that one paragraph and didn't have time to write the others. I drew up a simple solution to this: it included writing the whole paper before revising the first part. Just get the draft down, imperfect as it may be, however much you want to make it perfect before moving on to the next part. Then do your best to make it excellent along the way.
There's nothing wrong with seeking perfection, as long as you don't become its slave.
My gosh. That reminded me so much of myself. It's why I delayed writing this novel. I wanted my first draft to be perfect. This is, after all, the third book in the Tully Harper Series! The third book has to blow the readers away. It has to be perfect. What's more, I have to be perfect to write it. Perfect posture, perfect outline, perfect coffee, perfect me.
Ah, perfection, almighty inhibiter of creativity, destroyer of self-esteem, causer of much fretful processing. Please excuse my (or her) language, but I forgot one of the greatest tenets in all of Writerdom, as explained by Annie Lamott: "Everyone's entitled to a shitty first draft."
This student was. I was. Annie was. The third novel, like the third time, may turn out to be a charm, but I shouldn't expect its first draft to be better than the bad first drafts of the first two novels. It's not perfect, but at least it will eventually be complete. That's all you can ask of a first draft.
So, this draft is going to be ugly and the book will be a bit delayed. June 2016 still sounds realistic, but we shall see. I delayed it because I wasn't ready to write this bad first draft. Now I am. Let's call it a down draft. Just get it down, Adam, and then move on to the up draft, where I clean it up. That's also an Annie Lamott idea.
To wait for perfection is to wait forever. To wait for yourself to be/feel perfect enough to do something is the same trap. Better to do the following: Seek joy in the journey through the general slog. En-joy (but don't expect) the shimmers of perfection. And smile wryly when things go right...or when someone points out blemishes in the final draft.
My friend, you should've seen the first draft.
So imperfect me is going to return to writing his imperfect draft now. By the end of the day it will be a bit more complete. Lord willing and me working, by the beginning of summer you'll able to read the final draft.
*Note: I kept writing poems and short stories. One of them was published in an anthology by Mutabilis Press. :)
Photo credit: goteenwriters.com.
This fall I took a long-term substitute position at the school where I coach. It was a three month commitment. One of the teachers left on maternity leave, so I took over her two English classes for a few months. It was good to be back in the classroom and nice showing up to school at 10am and leaving by 1:30 everyday. It gave me time to keep writing, and in a perfect world, I would have been writing my third Tully Harper novel this fall. I should have been writing my third novel. But I wasn't. And I didn't.
Here's what happened: I played a lot of volleyball. I stayed out late on weeknights with friends. Okay, that happened but it's not what made me stop.*
What made me stop writing the novel was I stopped writing the novel. At first I told myself I was taking some time off "to process." Processing, it turns out, looks a lot like procrastination when I do it. Processing included research and outlining -- necessary work for a writer. So, after several weeks of processing, when I did sit down to write again, the story didn't come out right. It worked in my head but not on paper. So I dreamed up new ideas but didn't update my outline. I took notes but didn't write chapters because they felt...off. Gone were the glimmers of perfection amid the general slog. Gone were the fevered all-nighters where I knocked out 5,000 words in a sitting. I expect the general slog when I write, but I need those glimmers of perfection and authorial heroism to keep moving forward. The glimmer and heroism didn't appear.
So National November Writing Month rolled around. Hoping to finish my first draft in a month, I announced I would do just that; however, I couldn't sit myself down to do the work. Every word I wrote felt faulty. Every sentence a derailment. Every paragraph a train wreck. Anxiety crept into my writing life. Day flew by without hitting my word count. Finally, realizing I would have to write 10,000 words a day, I threw in the towel. NaNoWriMo defeated me. At the end of the month, I had scarcely 30,000 words toward my next novel. Just think of it: all those words and none of them see to be the right ones.
As a novelist, I was a bit of a mess.
In December, after a few more weeks of "processing," I tentatively got back to work on the Tully Harper Series. Just dipping my toes in the water, trying to figure out if I could acclimate to the cold of a first draft again.
I got back to writing the novel this week, in part because of the note I wrote on a student's paper.
"It's better to arrive on time than to arrive late because you're chasing a particular notion of perfection."
Today I added that quote to the comments section of a student's final paper. He's a talented writer. He wrote a wonderful essay. I loved teaching him. And to me the problem was clear: he wanted to write a perfect paper for his final exam, but he didn't have time with everything else going on at school and in life. So he submitted the paper a week late. He couldn't bring himself to finalize until then.
Nevertheless, my guess is that his essay would have been only good to great if he had submitted it on time.
I imagined him polishing each paragraph to a high sheen, spending hours on the first body paragraph when he hadn't yet written the second one yet. He spent all his time polishing that one paragraph and didn't have time to write the others. I drew up a simple solution to this: it included writing the whole paper before revising the first part. Just get the draft down, imperfect as it may be, however much you want to make it perfect before moving on to the next part. Then do your best to make it excellent along the way.
There's nothing wrong with seeking perfection, as long as you don't become its slave.
My gosh. That reminded me so much of myself. It's why I delayed writing this novel. I wanted my first draft to be perfect. This is, after all, the third book in the Tully Harper Series! The third book has to blow the readers away. It has to be perfect. What's more, I have to be perfect to write it. Perfect posture, perfect outline, perfect coffee, perfect me.
Ah, perfection, almighty inhibiter of creativity, destroyer of self-esteem, causer of much fretful processing. Please excuse my (or her) language, but I forgot one of the greatest tenets in all of Writerdom, as explained by Annie Lamott: "Everyone's entitled to a shitty first draft."
This student was. I was. Annie was. The third novel, like the third time, may turn out to be a charm, but I shouldn't expect its first draft to be better than the bad first drafts of the first two novels. It's not perfect, but at least it will eventually be complete. That's all you can ask of a first draft.
So, this draft is going to be ugly and the book will be a bit delayed. June 2016 still sounds realistic, but we shall see. I delayed it because I wasn't ready to write this bad first draft. Now I am. Let's call it a down draft. Just get it down, Adam, and then move on to the up draft, where I clean it up. That's also an Annie Lamott idea.
To wait for perfection is to wait forever. To wait for yourself to be/feel perfect enough to do something is the same trap. Better to do the following: Seek joy in the journey through the general slog. En-joy (but don't expect) the shimmers of perfection. And smile wryly when things go right...or when someone points out blemishes in the final draft.
My friend, you should've seen the first draft.
So imperfect me is going to return to writing his imperfect draft now. By the end of the day it will be a bit more complete. Lord willing and me working, by the beginning of summer you'll able to read the final draft.
*Note: I kept writing poems and short stories. One of them was published in an anthology by Mutabilis Press. :)
Photo credit: goteenwriters.com.
November 27, 2015
"A book is a gift you can open again and again."
"A book is a gift you can open again and again." - G. Keillor.
Whether you buy mine or someone else's, buy books for the people you love. Here's our Black Friday deal. Go, Tully, go! http://amazon.com/author/adam-holt
Whether you buy mine or someone else's, buy books for the people you love. Here's our Black Friday deal. Go, Tully, go! http://amazon.com/author/adam-holt
November 24, 2015
Posture: A Poem
Posture: A Poem
"Do you watch your posture?" he asked.
I watch many things but not this one,
though its mention
puts the curve back in my back.
A faint pop.
He smiles.
The chiropractor can manipulate joints without raising a finger.
Sometimes raising a question is enough.
What a lazy being I've become,
one who cannot say posture to himself a few times a day,one whose forgets to say prayer and moderation and love.
How will I ever become half a man in the eyes of almighty God
if I never say perfect or forgiven?
I'll say posture for now,
which sometimes brings me
to my knees.
I grow taller there.
And you.
What will you say?
- Adam Holt
October 26, 2015
Being featured on Tumblr's biggest astronomy blog...and ice cream wielding robots.
Dear Blog,
How am I just telling you? My work was featured on the Astronomical Wonders blog over the summer! I'm flattered and humbled (flambled maybe?) to appear on Tumblr's most popular astronomy blog. It has over 150,000 followers, more than the population of Waco.
How did this happen?
In June I headed to Space Center Houston for an afternoon. Just me, my books, and a mess of flyers for my Writers Camp. You know, the class that didn't quite make the necessary enrollment this summer. (Oh, but next summer it is on!) I set up shop beside the robotic ice cream machine. Nothing stops traffic like an ice cream-wielding robot.
...the stuff of dreams and nightmares.
Anyhow, most of my “recruits” for the camp unfortunately lived in other places. Not San Antonio, but places like Dubai, Detroit, or Lufkin. Probably not flying in for space writer's camp, no matter how much they'd like. So, instead of recruiting, I ended up talking to a few families about space and my books. Not my goal, but not a bad afternoon.
Toward the end of the day a family approached me - two adults in their twenties with their parents. We talked space and I found out the young man had landed an internship at NASA. Nice! He shared my passion for space and literacy, as did the rest of the family. Nicer! So I ended up selling them two of my books. After the recruitment fail, our chat encouraged me. It's always great to find the like-minded.
A few weeks passed. I thought nothing of it until the young man emailed and told me he was enjoying my books. Then he asked if he could feature them on his Tumblr blog, Astronomical Wonders. I said sure and decided to look up the blog. When I typed "Astronomical Wonders" into google, it began to finish my words for me. That’s usually a sign of high traffic. That’s cool, I thought, the blog has good web presence. Then I clicked on the blog.
First of all, Astronomical Wonders is gorgeous. The universe was built to be presented on Tumblr. Every image, from montages of the Carina Nebula to gifs of spinning galaxies, flowed across my iPhone screen like mercury. Post after post rolled under my thumb. It was good. See for yourself.
Then I noticed how many notes each picture had and how many people followed Astronomical Wonders (for good reason). At that point I realized that my three hours in front of Dippin' Dots robot produced untold hours of online exposure. Here's the post. http://astronomicalwonders.tumblr.com/post/126181272718/sneaking-onto-rockets-scientific-literacy
I’m always humbled that people want to read the Tully books, when librarians tell me "they're still checking them out." I put a lot of time and creativity into this story. I believe in its meaning, motivations, and characters. They remind me of who I want to be. I need to be like Tully and: follow my dreams; think of three things I'm grateful for before I go to sleep; be honest with my friends when it counts; admire qualities in the people around me; takes changes; go on adventures. And I need to follow the Sacred’s advice: “Go, and do not delay.” “Fight, but do not hate.” There's lots of going that's need to be done. Lots of fighting for what is good and just. I need to look up from this computer screen at the ever-living stars. I need to live out my dreams with courage and joy. And so do you.
These books have taken a few years of my life to develop, and though they imperfectly what’s inside my head, I’m doing the best I can with the tools at hand - pen I keep moving, keys I keep clicking.
I encourage you to do the same. It doesn’t matter who you think is watching, whether your face lands on someone's Tumblr feed today or you're stuck at a desk doing 9-5. If there is a good God in heaven, he sees and appreciates your efforts. He gave you breath in your lungs, ideas in your head, and work for your hands. Make the most of these things. And supplement them with stargazing and Dippin' Dot-wielding robots as opportunity allows. -A
How am I just telling you? My work was featured on the Astronomical Wonders blog over the summer! I'm flattered and humbled (flambled maybe?) to appear on Tumblr's most popular astronomy blog. It has over 150,000 followers, more than the population of Waco.
How did this happen?
In June I headed to Space Center Houston for an afternoon. Just me, my books, and a mess of flyers for my Writers Camp. You know, the class that didn't quite make the necessary enrollment this summer. (Oh, but next summer it is on!) I set up shop beside the robotic ice cream machine. Nothing stops traffic like an ice cream-wielding robot.
...the stuff of dreams and nightmares. Anyhow, most of my “recruits” for the camp unfortunately lived in other places. Not San Antonio, but places like Dubai, Detroit, or Lufkin. Probably not flying in for space writer's camp, no matter how much they'd like. So, instead of recruiting, I ended up talking to a few families about space and my books. Not my goal, but not a bad afternoon.
Toward the end of the day a family approached me - two adults in their twenties with their parents. We talked space and I found out the young man had landed an internship at NASA. Nice! He shared my passion for space and literacy, as did the rest of the family. Nicer! So I ended up selling them two of my books. After the recruitment fail, our chat encouraged me. It's always great to find the like-minded.
A few weeks passed. I thought nothing of it until the young man emailed and told me he was enjoying my books. Then he asked if he could feature them on his Tumblr blog, Astronomical Wonders. I said sure and decided to look up the blog. When I typed "Astronomical Wonders" into google, it began to finish my words for me. That’s usually a sign of high traffic. That’s cool, I thought, the blog has good web presence. Then I clicked on the blog.
First of all, Astronomical Wonders is gorgeous. The universe was built to be presented on Tumblr. Every image, from montages of the Carina Nebula to gifs of spinning galaxies, flowed across my iPhone screen like mercury. Post after post rolled under my thumb. It was good. See for yourself.
Then I noticed how many notes each picture had and how many people followed Astronomical Wonders (for good reason). At that point I realized that my three hours in front of Dippin' Dots robot produced untold hours of online exposure. Here's the post. http://astronomicalwonders.tumblr.com/post/126181272718/sneaking-onto-rockets-scientific-literacy
I’m always humbled that people want to read the Tully books, when librarians tell me "they're still checking them out." I put a lot of time and creativity into this story. I believe in its meaning, motivations, and characters. They remind me of who I want to be. I need to be like Tully and: follow my dreams; think of three things I'm grateful for before I go to sleep; be honest with my friends when it counts; admire qualities in the people around me; takes changes; go on adventures. And I need to follow the Sacred’s advice: “Go, and do not delay.” “Fight, but do not hate.” There's lots of going that's need to be done. Lots of fighting for what is good and just. I need to look up from this computer screen at the ever-living stars. I need to live out my dreams with courage and joy. And so do you.
These books have taken a few years of my life to develop, and though they imperfectly what’s inside my head, I’m doing the best I can with the tools at hand - pen I keep moving, keys I keep clicking.
I encourage you to do the same. It doesn’t matter who you think is watching, whether your face lands on someone's Tumblr feed today or you're stuck at a desk doing 9-5. If there is a good God in heaven, he sees and appreciates your efforts. He gave you breath in your lungs, ideas in your head, and work for your hands. Make the most of these things. And supplement them with stargazing and Dippin' Dot-wielding robots as opportunity allows. -A
