Companions

A week from tomorrow, I'll be embarking on a one-woman cross-country journey involving stops in Ohio, Kansas City, Denver, and, finally, the arid canyon regions of New Mexico. At the other end of my journey is a bungalow situated on a creek in a triangle of wineries and artist communities where I'll isolate myself for seven days, reading, writing, and photographing to my heart's content.

The forecast for the drive calls for rain. I've obtained an arsenal of audiobooks; Brad Pitt and Stephen Fry will be my driving companions. I'll seek comfort in their voices, and the syncopated hum of dry underpasses.

I think a lot about companions.

The prospect of being alone for a week has me in a sudden and perpetual list-making phase, as my mind at its most nervous is incapable of thinking in paragraph form. I have listed...

...things to do in a bungalow in the desert that don't involve television watching or drinking too much
...interesting cities on I-70 between Indianapolis and Denver that aren't Kansas City or St. Louis
...books to take with me to New Mexico.

This last list so far contains the following: War and Peace, two Nicola Barker novels, and Things I Learned About My Dad (in therapy).

My copy of the latter title, an anthology of essays about fatherhood edited by Heather Armstrong, is currently somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona, winging its way to me. But something today pulled me to the bookstore, where I found a copy to leaf through.

It's no secret that I'm a big fan of the writing done by Jim at Sweet Juniper. How pleased was I, then, to discover that his was one of the essays in the book -- a real live, hold-it-in-your-hands, honest-to-goodness hardcover, capable of giving you papercuts. Something you could fall asleep in bed with, tuck in your bag on the way to work. A whole new reading experience.

I made myself comfortable in a corner of the bookshop and went straight to Jim's piece. What I found there was inspiring. Jim's essay is, plainly put, stunning. In case you're unfamiliar, his writing is positively Dybekian. If he doesn't have a book of essays published within the next five years, well, then I'll just have to start a printing press myself. If you pick one of my links to read today, pick Jim's. He's a father, and a fellow nostalgia-peddler. And he's a good writer. A damn good one.

And, for the record, I can't wait to read the rest. The book includes essays from half of my blogroll: Sarah Brown, Alice Bradley, Eden Kennedy, Maggie Mason, not to mention Heather Armstrong herself... and that's just the tip of the iceberg.

I'm not shy about expressing my appreciation for the fantastic writing being done online. People who discount the format are just being silly and elitist. I'm constantly amazed by what's out there, by what holds me captive on a daily basis, what inspires me to write here, what gives me a good laugh. These are writers who have kept me company for years now with stories from their lives, and I have a feeling they'll do a fine job keeping me company in my little desert bungalow.

Did I mention no internet access?

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