Being a Novelist Sometimes Means Doing Things for No Apparent Reason

Kurt Vonnegut famously pointed out that literature should not disappear up its own asshole. Writers shouldn’t just write about being writers, which means sometimes they need to get out there and actually do stuff. To create compelling fiction and vivid prose, one must seek out authentic life experiences. Although the occasional sequester is sometimes necessary to meet a deadline, one must not retreat into permanent isolation, hunched over a keyboard, slowly disconnecting from the world, spilling out words in a torrent of unraveling sanity.

Using that justification, I recently embarked on an adventure that had no particular point other than doing something random enough to be appealing and challenging enough to be interesting: I took nine and a half days and rode my motorcycle from one end of U.S. Route 19 to the other, across 1,400 miles and seven states. I deliberately sought out unusual places to stay along the way. It was not a high season for travel, nor was I going to popular tourist destinations. In fact, every single night of the trip, at every single place I stayed—with the exception of one night at a popular motorcycle-only road house—I was the only paying guest.

This was not the biggest trip I’ve done, either in terms of days, mileage, or number of states, but it was still a moderately ambitious endeavor that I had been arranging and strategizing since last November. So when I woke up on the morning of leg four and saw that the forecast was for snow and ice all along my intended path for the day, I was deeply demoralized.

My gear is comfortable down into the 50s for a few hours in dry, sunny conditions. It’s adequate down into the 40s in damp, misty weather. But on this day it was raining, with intermittent snow flurries and temperatures hovering in the high 30s. I had about seven or eight hours of riding ahead of me. I was only about halfway through this trip that I had planned and looked forward to for so long, and now I was facing the heartbreaking possibility of seeing it all fall apart. At a moment like that, you have to ask yourself some tough questions. I decided to go for it. I’ll see how it goes, I told myself, and if I’m too miserable, too tired, or too cold, or if the road conditions get too hazardous, I’ll give up, find a place to stop, and abandon the rest of the journey.

So I rallied my nerve and embarked. And even though there were periods during which I seriously doubted that I would, I made it.

In retrospect, it is difficult not to see the whole undertaking as a fitting allegory for writing a book . . .

1. You have to
Just.
Keep.
Going.

When you are two or three hours into a cold, wet ride, the prospect of another four or five hours of the same punishment seems like too much to face. The urge to give up becomes overwhelming. But no—one more sentence, one more paragraph, one more chapter.

2. It is supremely solitary. No one can ride those miles for you. You are trapped inside your own head, locked in combat with the road (or the manuscript) in front of you. It’s an emotional battle against that voice telling you to quit. “No one is forcing you to do this,” the voice reminds you. “Why are you punishing yourself? No one will care if you ever finish or not.”

3. There is not much of a well-defined support system. Trying to write a book, especially an unusual book, is like being the one motorcyclist on a snowy highway filled with cars and trucks. People look at you like you’re insane. And they’re not wrong.

4. Life isn’t fair. And that’s encouraging. Sometimes, you spend weeks and months planning and working towards a goal, only to have it nearly torpedoed by factors absolutely beyond your control. Why is that encouraging? Two reasons. First, you made it, didn’t you? And second, since the universe is obviously meaningless and indifferent, it’s just as likely that the Law of Averages will dump some marvelous undeserved success in your lap one day.

5. The rewards of the destination are worth the temporary pain and suffering that got you there. The final goal fills you with such pride, with such a transcendent, soul-inflating sense of accomplishment, that the agony along the way is soon forgotten. And that’s why there will always be another book . . . and another ride.

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My author page:
www.AustinScottCollins.com

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