Traveling for the Book

Tonight I am starting a new category for this blog.  I am calling it Traveling for the Book. When one spends an inordinate number of hours alone, in a dark room, hacking away at a manuscript, it is only natural to daydream about what it will be like to actually sell your story and then go on a book tour to wonderful cities to meet like-minded readers.

Unfortunately, book tours, unless you are an established author or someone like, let’s say, Marcia Brady, are not a given.  It is expensive to fly authors around and put them up in hotels if only a few dozen people show up to listen and buy a book. So the book tour is not actually panning out. They are sort of a thing of the past.  However, I have been very lucky to find a supportive publisher (Guideposts Books) who has hired a great publicity firm (Phenix and Phenix) to help market Halfway to Each Other.

It is thrilling to have this sort of support, and I am doing my best to contribute to the process by writing articles for papers and magazines, calling in to be a guest on radio shows, and traveling when asked.

Brand new to the world of publishing and marketing, I am loving every minute of it and am learning more each day.  My favorite parts have been unexpected.  In these pages I hope to recapture some of the magic along the way.

So, this is my book tour.  Thanks for stopping by.

Dining Alone

As the taxi drove off I stood and studied the old-fashioned marquee that boasted the name of the Austin Motel.  It was suspiciously phallic shaped which seemed inappropriate for a family hotel.  I pulled open the glass door and stepped into 1974, a study in paneling and hanging plants. It had a homey, yet Kathy Bates sort of feel to it.  A twenty-something guy with short brown hair and a kind face jumped up from behind the chest high counter.

‘Hey,” he greeted me as he put down his magazine.

“Hey,” I casually responded with my business trip persona on full display. I wanted to ask him if he was aware that his marquee was an ill-advised shape.

“How many nights?”

“Just one.” He took my credit card and ran the transaction.

“Rm. 19”

“Thanks.”

“Up the driveway. Then up those stairs off to the right side.  Go left. Down to the middle of the parking lot.”

“Are there restaurants around here that I could get something quick and easy?”

“Plenty,” he said going into a detailed description of every eatery within a mile.

“Great.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and turned toward the door. “And is it safe for a woman to walk alone around here at night?”

“Oh sure,” he said.

“Perfect.”  I pushed on the door and felt a rush of cool air.

“But don’t hold me to it,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?”  I looked back at him.

“I mean, no guarantees.”

“Thanks.”

I wheeled my suitcase across the paved driveway to the side steps and climbed my way up wondering how anyone with any sort of disability would maneuver this. The cool dark quiet of the Tuesday night started to feel too dark and too quiet.  My eyes shifted left then right searching for possible attackers in the foliage.  If there is one thing my mother taught me, it’s that danger lurks everywhere.

I finally found my room and let myself in.  Hmmm.  Interesting.  Though very clean and oddly comfortable, all of the pieces of furniture had absolutely no business sharing a room together. The rattan couch, the old bed, the grandmother’s dresser, the 30-inch TV and the sponge painting on the plaster walls in disturbing colors. The next time I see a website that boasts a quirky downtown hotel, I’ll understand the lingo.

I unpacked my business attire for the next day and then sat on the edge of the bed.  So… here I was, all alone on a Tuesday night in Austin. I glanced around, studied the cracks on the ceiling, and hummed a few bars of Deep in the Heart of Texas.

The night was young, and I was hungry. The problem was that I had never gone to dinner by myself before.  I hated the thought of it.  Sitting alone, ordering alone, chewing alone. Loserville.  But I didn’t want to end my day with a warm beer and a handful of M&M’s like the last trip.

I stood and stared in the mirror over the dresser to give myself a pep-talk, but I was immediately sidetracked into counting my brown spots.  One more and I would have an exact replica of the Big Dipper on my lower left jaw.

Oh, for goodness sakes.  If I am old enough to bear constellations I should be able to eat alone. I will be bold and conquer this fear.  If I am going to travel, I had better get used to it. Maybe I’d run into a lonely astronomer.  At the very least I could find take-out.

I spruced up, grabbed my handbag, stuck my keys between my knuckles like Edward Scissorhands and headed out into the night air, striding with my new purposeful walk.  If someone was going to mug me, I wouldn’t go down easy.

The receptionist had mentioned an Italian restaurant, Boticelli’s, down a few blocks and across the street.  I sized it up from my side of S. Congress. It looked inviting, not too large, with warm colors and good lighting.  As I crossed the busy street, I could see it was packed.  Great, all the more people to notice my loser status.  I gripped the handles of my black leather bag and walked through the front door.

It was exactly my kind of place.  Smallish, intimate without being stuffy, great energy and a lot of laughter.  People that were living our their ordinary Tuesday night with joy.  The white tablecloths announced that the food was serious business, and the waiters were busy.

I stood for an interminable forty-five seconds until a young Asian beauty walked over with a handful of menus.

“Table?” She asked with a smile that held more teeth than average.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“One.”

“One?”

“Yes.”

“You mean one more?”

“No.  Just me.  Is that okay?  Can we use a table just for one person?”  Good one, Susan, like that’s something a bold, self confident woman would ask. Get a grip. And take your keys out of your knuckles this minute.

“ Sure. Here, let why don’t you just take this table right here.”

She sat me at a tiny two-top right next to the hostess stand.  It was perfect.  A fringe table. On the outskirts of popular.

I sat with my back to the wall so I could study the diners as well as my menu.  A handsome waiter with a shock of black hair falling across his forehead approached with a big smile and a basket of warm bread.

“Welcome to Boticelli’s.  How are we this evening?”

“We are fine,” I answered.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“A glass of red wine would be great.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Something bold, chewy.”

“I have just the one,” he said, his eyes narrowing in thought.

“Bring it on.”  Oh, and would you mind sitting with me and having a glass, or three?

He returned with a glass of red velvet and placed it before me with a flourish.  After a thorough recitation of the menu, I ordered the evening’s special and he was off to the kitchen.

I began to relax and enjoy myself.  Between sips of wine, I wrote the scene

in my head (all writers do since we can’t help ourselves), concocting all sorts of elaborate story lines to go along with the characters sitting at each table.  Soon enough it was a dining room filled with sitcom families complete with over zealous laughter, stoney silences and furtive glances between characters married to other people.

The minute hand on the big clock over the bar ticked away. Where the heck was my food?

I craned my neck to get a glimpse of my waiter somewhere in the room, but he wasn’t there.  I poked at the bread basket and picked some imaginary lint off of my napkin. At a table to the right of the bar, a blonde woman, with perfect posture and cold blue eyes stared in my direction. The Stoney Silence table.

I decided to strike a casual yet alluring pose like I was pondering one of the unexplained phenomena of the universe. Gazing off into space I noticed a back door opening and closing. People entering and exiting.

The waiter appeared, “Sorry for the wait, m’am.”

“Oh, no problem,” I said, “I’m in no hurry.”   Please bring my food right now so I can gulp it down and leave.

“We didn’t expect to be so busy on a Tuesday. We’re a bit understaffed.”

“Hey, it happens.” Who called in sick?

“Another glass of wine?”

“Well,  I guess that would be okay.”  Duh.

He refilled my glass as I pulled my trusty notebook from my oversized black travel purse.  If I was going to be here awhile I figured I may as well pretend I was working so Miss Frosty over there could stop staring and get back to ignoring her date.

A character at the table to my left, the Brothers and Sisters table, glanced at me as the others began to fight over the bill, and then the snotty social climber with the puffy lips at  the Housewives of Austin table in the back corner actually pointed at me and whispered to her recently jilted friend who was considering returning the dress she was wearing since shiny pink did nothing for her.

A blush rose up my neck and the heat settled in my cheeks.  I had been revealed.  Yes, Ladies and Gentleman  I am dining alone and unloved.  Please pay your bills and leave me to my pasta.

My food finally arrived as the restaurant began to empty. The ravioli was delicious and warm and the aroma made me close my eyes and drift back to an evening on the Passeggiata in Nervi, Italy when Tim and I had sat at a cafe table under the stars, listening to the pounding surf below as we dined on Ligurian fare. Good food does that, it connects beautiful moments with invisible lines.

A few other loners wandered in and sat at the bar so I decided to finish my wine with them.  I hopped on the end stool just as an older gentleman in a plaid shirt with carefully combed grey hair came through the back door and stood at my elbow.  He placed his glass on the bar and the bartender filled it with the house chardonnay. They nodded to each other as he turned to leave.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is there something outside?”

“Live music and a lovely terrace,” he said, his chocolate brown eyes matched his warm smile. “You should come see.”

“Is it all couples?”

“No.  You can sit with us if you wish.  We are on the bench right up front.”

“Thanks.  Maybe I will.”

He walked down the narrow hall and disappeared.  I paid the bill, picked up my glass, and headed toward the door.  It opened onto a large patio, with tables, and benches and a full stage under the canopy of a towering, ancient oak tree.

An all female band in Bohemian dresses and long curls, sang in harmony, haunting and sweet, to the tables filled with couples. I leaned against a tree off to the side and enjoyed the creative energy of these talented women, girls really, whose eyes twinkled as brightly as the stars through the leaves overhead. The crowd was transfixed.  There was beauty in the air floating amongst the notes.  I love the unexpected appearance of magic.

I searched for my friend at the bar and there he was on the front bench just like he said he would be, a woman’s head on his shoulder.  I wondered what she would do if I sat and put my head on his other shoulder just for laughs.

In this setting I did not feel lonely.  I felt proud for taking an ordinary Tuesday and pushing myself past my comfort zone. A night were I could have convinced my middle-aged self that I was too old for this. I was happy that I didn’t spend the evening alone in a hotel room when magic and joy and, yes, some uncomfortable moments were there for the offering right across the street. I wondered how many times I had already done that. Had wasted precious nights on fear.

I am starting to get the hang of this traveling thing.  I am wondering what will come next.

The Taxi Driver

I sat in the back of the taxi cab, counting the fuzzy braids that flayed out beneath the cabbie’s knit cap, a huge black spider with crazy legs.  Slumped down in his seat with one lazy arm guiding the wheel, he looked like he was parked rather than barreling down the highway at breakneck speeds.  I tightened my seatbelt as I started singing War’s Low Rider in my head,

“All my friends, know the low rider…”

The Mapquest directions I handed him had landed on the floor of the passenger side of the front seat.  I craned my neck so he would notice that I noticed.  Since I did not know my way around Austin, I was hoping that he would take me to my hotel and not his favorite crack house.

“So, is the Austin Motel nice?” I asked with my polite, yet firm, voice.

“Yeah, s’ real nice.”

“The Austin Motel on South Congress?”

“Yeah, s’ real nice.”

“Because I didn’t want you to confuse it with another Austin Motel, because, you know, since we’re in Austin there might be a few.” I added with my still polite, yet firm, voice. “I think my directions fell on your floor.”

“Don’t you worry, Honey, I got ya.”  You got me? And I am hardly your Honey, Mr Taxi Driver.

“Low Rider knows every street, yeah…”

I studied the ID card that hung from the rearview mirror.  The mirror that he did not seem to need as he wove through traffic.  Okay, Jeremiah.  I’ve got your name and number. I’m writing it all down right here on my hotel reservation sheet.  I’m sure that will make the drug dealers at the crack house nervous.

There’s something unnerving about taking a cab when I am traveling alone; willingly stepping into a stranger’s vehicle and assuming he/she is of sound mind and body.  I hate the fact that I have to take the taxi at the front of the line at the airport.  I think one should be able to size up the drivers beforehand and choose the one with whom you want to risk your life.

“Car 2547 do you read? Car 2547?  What’s your location?” The shortwave radio crackled and spat. He reached for the hand mic and held it to his mouth.

“Hey Baby,” his voice suddenly deeper, Barry White-ish, “yeah, uhmmmm, who-ooo, oh yeah….Airport run then I’m done.” Giggles on the other end.  Very professional.

“Low Rider is the one to meet, yeah.”

He replaced the mic and smirked sideways at me.

“She digs me.”  Digs you?  As in Susan Dey digs Keith Partridge?

“I’m sure she does.”

“Just moved here from Houston. Gots ta keep the ladies happy.  Good for business.”

“Of course.” He leaned over and turned the volume knob to the left, muting the female voice and revealing long, yellowed fingernails.  Nice.

“This is just a side gig.”

“Really?”  I asked since I felt that humoring him would keep those fingernails on the wheel. “On the side of what?”

“Music.” His eyes lit up and his lips curled into a smile.

“Austin’s a great place for that.”

“My band’s in the line-up for the festival.”

“Well, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he turned his head and looked me square in the eye. “I ‘precciate that. I do.  It’s a lot of work, you know?  Followin’ your passion. Puttin’ your heart on the line.”

“I do know.”  I sat back and relaxed as we chatted about taking risks and chance meetings.

He veered onto the off ramp and turned left.  As we wound through the city streets I took in the sights as he threw out a few historical facts. He even filled me in on the Austin Motel, how it has been a family run business for over 60 years weathering good times and bad.

“Take a little trip. Take a little trip with me.”

Before I knew it, my Low Rider taxi friend pulled up to the Austin Motel.  He jumped out of the car and opened my door with a deep theatrical bow and a wave of his arm.

“Thank you for the ride,” I said with sincerity as I pulled out a few bills and handed them to him. “And good luck with the concert.”

He gave me a sideways smirk and slid in to the driver’s seat. I watched for a long moment as he eased his way back into traffic and joined a sea of red tail lights snaking toward downtown.

The Ballerina

 I boarded my connecting flight late on purpose. It had already been a long travel day, and I dreaded another two hours on a crowded plane. As I made my way toward the one vacant seat in back of the aircraft, I could see a frazzled, older woman standing in the aisle. She clutched a maroon tweed carry-on bag that was not going to fit under the seat no matter how hard she wrestled with it.

 “Oh dear.  I thought this would work. What was I thinking?” Mumble, mumble. “No room in the overhead.”  More mumbling. “Gosh darn it.”

 Her words, squeaked though the air as passengers all around pretended not to notice. Flustered, she looked past me toward the flight attendant who was motioning for her to bring the bag to the front of the plane so it could be checked. There was something about her exaggerated movements that didn’t feel right. Something was left of center. I didn’t have to look up at the seat numbers to know that I would be her lucky seat mate.

 I stood to the side as she bustled past me, nervous and sweating, in her sea foam sweat suit worn thin by too many washings. I scanned the plane for another empty seat as I was in a not willing to converse with weirdos mood.  Unfortunately, the plane was full, so I pretended to check and recheck my things in the overhead until she returned and plopped into the window seat, exhaling loudly.

 “Sorry,” she said.

 “Nothing to worry about.” I wasn’t sure why she was apologizing.

 “I don’t fly often,” her doe-brown eyes were magnified by the lenses of her glasses. Light brown curls framed her face.

 “Hmmm,” I murmured as I pulled the flight card from the seat pocket and pretended to search for over wing exits. I was too tired to encourage her.  I wanted to take off, fall asleep, and wake up in Austin.

 She buckled her seat belt and sat upright, her beige leather purse perched on her knees. “Do you?”

 “Do I what?” I asked.

 “Do you fly often?”

 “I guess so.”

 “For your job?”

 “At times.”

 “I am going to see some relatives.”

 “That’s good.”  I could see that my short answers were not deterring her.

She continued to pepper me with questions while she took a small brush from her handbag and began to brush her hair. I hate it when people groom themselves on airplanes. I hoped she did not pull out some nail clippers next.

 “Don’t worry, I’m not the type that will talk your ear off on the flight,” she said as she brushed the back of her hair with sudden intensity.

 “I didn’t think so,” I said as I gave her my best fake, yet friendly smile. I put my head back and closed my eyes. I had a big day tomorrow.  Media training.

 A few minutes later the plane accelerated down the runway and lifted into the air. We both glanced out the window as the ground shrank below us. Her hands wrapped around the handles of her purse. A deep breath. She began to hum.

 “What do you do?”

 “I’m a teacher, eighth grade. And a writer. You?”

 “Oh, I don’t work.  Not anymore. I stopped before… How old are you?”

 How old am I? Like that’s a normal thing to ask a stranger.

“Older than I want to admit,” I fake laughed. I pulled a novel from my bag and began to read. I would nip this in the bud right here.

 She opened her purse and pulled out a Zip-Lock Bag of candy. She unwrapped a few Hershey Kisses and smacked her lips as she enjoyed them.  It was sort of making me queasy, all of these mouth noises and finger wiping. From the corner of my eye I saw her carefully, almost reverently, remove a photo from her purse. She slid it across my tray table.

 

 “She was thirty-seven.”

 

Was.

A lovely ballerina stared up at me from the photo.  I picked it up and my heart wobbled.

“She was a serious dancer.”

Was.

 

“She’s beautiful,” I said as I studied her poised on the tips of her satin toe shoes, auburn hair pulled taunt into a bun.

“You would have loved her,” the woman added as she touched my arm. “She taught extreme sports in the off season.  Anything to pay the bills. Spirit.  That’s what she was known for. People loved her spirit. Filled the room.”

I slid the photo back in her direction and looked into her wounded, magnified eyes, expecting tears.  There were none, just the far away cast that said she was remembering. My insides ached as I realized what was happening.

Of course I didn’t recognize right away what made her different.  How could I when my own daughter was safe and happy. Grief can rearrange a person. The weight of sorrow can pull anyone left of center.

Shame crept in. I had to stop judging people so quickly. “I have a feeling we would have been good friends,” I said.

“It’s been three years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Breast cancer.”

“Awful.”

“Now, I told you.  I’m not one of those types to talk your ear off.” She proceeded to tell me all of the disturbing details.

We settled into our respective silences.  I could concentrate on my novel about as well as she could concentrate on the prayer cards she kept pulling from her purse. How does a mother let go of her baby girl?  I prayed with all of my might that I would never have to find out. After awhile she pulled out a carefully folded newspaper clipping and slid it across the tray table. “Since you’re a writer. You’ll appreciate this.”

I unfolded the paper and proceeded to read a lovely tribute to her daughter, indeed an established dancer in Los Angeles.  The same photo she had handed me earlier adorned the piece.

“This is wonderful.”

“We couldn’t afford a proper obituary by the end.  All of our money was gone. The church supported us through so much of it…but her friend, John, he knew the writer.”

She took the clipping and carefully replaced it.  A few more Hershey Kisses disappeared.

“You know.  The worst day…”

I braced myself.  I was not the strongest when it came to emotional pain.

“…was the day she lost her arabesque.”

Her arabesque? What about her breasts? What about the day she lost her life?

“That was the day we looked at each other and knew.”

 

“I am lost for words,” I said, my eyes watering.

“A dancer needs her arabesque.”

We nodded at each other. A nod between mothers paints far more than a thousand words. We settled again into a comfortable silence.  She watched the fiery sunset through the clouds, and I watched her watching it.

“I hope I can be the kind of mother you’ve been,” I said to her as we landed. “Your sharing this with me gave her one more performance.”

“What do you mean?” her eyes lit up like I was the director of the Joffrey Ballet Company.

“Your sweet ballerina danced right into my heart. And when a writer says this, it means that one day, she will dance across a page… and into readers’ hearts forever.”

We looked at each other a long moment, and she blinked back tears. Then she stood with her purse. “She had a spirit, you know? The kind of of spirit that would fill a room.”