Moving forward is the theme of the year, my next years, my foreseeable future. It always has been, but sometimes you need a big event, like almost dying – but not, to wake you up to the day-to-day reality of what it means to be healthy and alive. The moving forward theme is very convenient for a thru-hiker, especially me, as I’ve had a very deliberate and physical shift from hiker me to writer me since coming home from the Camino. 

I’ve turned the office where I built and ran my long-distance trail consulting business into my writing studio. I moved all my hiking and business books out, and my writing books in. I obtained a new cozy rocking chair to read in, and finally transitioned my trusty cancer cart that would move around the house with me into a bookshelf that now houses all of my medications, the books you all have sent me (there are still so many I have left to read!), and notecards.

Why do this? Because I’ve decided that I am writing a book next. That is my forward, and I’m very excited about it. Yes, I do want to create more Camino-style hiking opportunities in the States. Yes, I plan to continue to explore and adventure without a backpack until the day when I can start putting weight on these shoulders of mine, but I decided that I will be making decisions for the short-term me for now. I will transition back to the business of hiking phase once I’m certain that I’ll be around in 5 years to work on a 5-year plan. 

I have always wanted to write a book. When I was a kid, I wanted to be an author. Others want to be astronauts or doctors, and I wanted to be a writer. I talked about it and thought about it endlessly. I specifically remember designing the cover (in crayon of course) for one of my early books, named “A Story Within a Story,” but did I actually write it? I don’t recall, but I do remember thinking I could write anything if I really wanted to. 

I think I wanted to be an author so bad because I love books. Love them. Growing up, I read books like there was no tomorrow. Now that I know what no tomorrow really feels like, the metaphor holds up. Reading was and always has been a desperate thing. I would gulp down words as if they might disappear from the page. I wanted to read them all right now. Even today. The feeling I have of walking into a library or Barnes and Noble has always been one of longing and regret. There is no way I can read everything. 

I think my desire to consume words has always really been about the desire for adventure (adventure with a side of escapism). Hmmm, escapism….Zogore in Burkina Faso comes to mind. After college, I got what I asked for. The adventure of living in West Africa for my two-year Peace Corps service was completely overwhelming at times, and I read through my bewilderment and frequent existential crises. I dealt with the reality of being the first foreigner, not even the first Peace Corps volunteer, to live in that dusty and dry sub-Saharan village by escaping into my books. Hundreds of books. Note: I learned to adjust to the rhythm of it after the first year…there is something to the idea that deep time in a place softens you up to accept its imprint on your person. 

Since I started reading, I’ve been ingesting all of these stories and sagas, and those words have been sifting and percolating. And it turns out, I had been writing the whole time…just not books. From English class haikus in grade school to my dissertation in grad school: The Eco Interplay Ethic, I wrote a lot. But it took on another dimension when I started hiking.

When I started hiking, I knew I wanted to keep a daily journal, so my nightly scribbles on the Appalachian Trail in 2002 became part of my daily routine. I have no idea where that journal ended up, but I transformed my written journals into digital ones on my next few thru-hikes, including the West Highland Way, Pacific Crest Trail, Colorado Trail, Arizona Trail and more. Then over the last decade, as cell phones hit the trail, I’ve been typing with my thumbs on the 12 different long-distance hikes I’ve done since then…that’s about 12,000 miles of mornings. Early mornings became my witching hour. Early mornings are when my thoughts are most crisp, and even after sipping on the first dregs of my hot coffee in my sleeping bag, the night clings on just enough to bring some of its poetry back into the world.

Writing a book is a much bigger task than writing every day for 5 months on a trail (a la PCT or CDT). How do I start? I guess by writing every day for five months, and then five months more, and another five on top of that. Maybe I’ve started with this blog post.

Over the last month or so I started by reading about writing. (Can I give myself a self-directed MFA?) I want to study the craft. The structure. To learn how to weave different elements together in something as gigantic as a book. Like John McPhee says in On the Writing Process, start at an exciting part and circle back around (Note: revisit his structure in the story about the canoe and a bear). Add a little humor like Stephen King does in On Writing. Do the daily writing prompts like Suleika Jaouad does in The Book of Alchemy, and follow the 12-week program like Julia Cameron suggests in The Artist’s Way.

Of course there is no one way. I could just start writing.

But up next I’m going to take a workshop with Cheryl Strayed this weekend who wrote Wild (you know, the PCT book that wasn’t really about hiking the PCT). She rented a tiny house at the base of Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge (along the Oregon Desert Trail!) to write her book. I figure it would be silly to NOT take her workshop. 

Then I’m going to the Central Oregon Writer’s Guide Conference in Bend. And after that? Maybe take a masterclass, maybe look into some residencies, maybe start on a quest to find a room with a view where I can go to for a week or two at a time, take in the landscape, go on walks, and write this thing. (If you have any ideas of cheap places I could rent, spots I could park the camper, or people who need house sitters, let me know!)

What is one of the most important elements of becoming the writer I’ve always wanted to become? Time. I have the time. I need to keep reminding myself of this because I’ve been feeling pressure to start thinking about work (Note: this is my own pressure, it’s not coming from any of you). Writing is work, right? If I’m not going to die immediately, I should be working, right? I’m fighting with myself there. Why does existence have to be productive? The gift my friends and family and the disability social safety net have given me this year is the permission and cushion of time to heal. To get better. Working doesn’t necessarily have to be part of that equation, but it also gives me a reason to be…especially when the reason is writing to process this new life I find myself living. 

Work also brings up the question of: “how do I make decisions now?” As I mentioned earlier in the blog, until I can be more confident of being around at the end of a 5-year plan, I’m not going to work on a 5-year plan. I’m going to work right now. I’m going to work on the immediate future. It’s tough, though, when I got the scan showing me I didn’t have any active cancer this summer, I suddenly could see a longer life… so does that mean I start saving for retirement again? Can I even entertain the possibility of retiring? All the while, I still need to make it to 5 years…and the odds aren’t quite in my favor, but then again, I’ve always excelled at exceeding the odds and have had good luck trusting the world. 

I don’t know the answer friends. I guess I’ll keep going forward and find out.

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