Uncertainty as a motivating factor seems incongruent when a desired outcome requires a level of intentionality that one hopes will guide a process to results that will validate one’s actions. That was the circumstance that led me, with blind ambition, to leave Phoenix on Saturday, March 22nd, heading east, hoping a sojourn to the middle of nowhere would catapult the languid pace of writing I’d run into regarding my novel. While I can maintain my vigilance relatively consistently, my productivity isn’t guaranteed to reach the prolific heights I strive for. Those swings in outcomes are typically just a part of the process, but I was running into the limitations of time, not regarding the book, but of finding the headspace to begin planning our upcoming vacation.

It’s possible that I was traveling with a hint of depression on this solo trip into the wide expanse of the desert. Typically, Picketpost Mountain in Superior (found in the first photo), an hour outside of Phoenix, is where the condition of whatever it was that left me in a funk begins lifting. That wasn’t holding true on this trip as I dwelled on the sour idea that I was giving up on John-and-Caroline time and that whatever meager additions I might accomplish in my writing could have just as well been done in Phoenix. You see, previously, when heading to Duncan, I knew that going to this remote outpost would amplify my productivity. For this trip, that confidence was missing. Believe it or not, which is also why I referenced the possible depression, I almost skipped out on stopping at Guayo’s El Rey Mexican Restaurant, home of the best ever carne asada smothered in green chile and cheese. Fortunately, I came to my senses and found salvation in the holy temple of food.

I reached the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona, near the western edge of New Mexico, in the late afternoon, finding Dimitri and Molly locked in the feline snuggle of purring cats that would make most anyone say “awwww,” well, except for you weird cat haters out there. Adamant that I would not waste a minute of this indulgence to be away from Phoenix, I immediately set up my computer at the table as I’ve done the same on many other occasions before this one, and tried leaning into my work. Like other days, I was able to eke out a minimum, and before quitting for the evening, I’d added another thousand or so words to my growing document.

I apologize for using the worn-out metaphor, but here I am at a literal and figurative crossroads. This photo of Railroad Avenue and Main Street was the literal, while figuratively, I reached a point in the draft of my novel that I could see an opportunity to bring closure to the first half of the book, thus allowing me to set it aside to offer my attention to the travel planning that would be required for us to take our summer holiday.

Muhammed Ali once said something about floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. I don’t know if anyone ever offered something poetic about moths and writers, but this photograph of a Western Poplar Sphinx Moth is all I’ve got for helping shape something witty to say. Not being a poet, I had to turn to AI for help; it gave me this: “Flutter like a moth, write like a firefly: illuminating pages, one spark at a time.” Yeah, that’s what I did, illuminate the pages with brilliance.

Of course, that is a matter of perspective, and in a potential actuality, I may have only dusted the pages with more cobwebs, but who cares? My story feels good to me, most of the time. I fret that coherence is a concept that only ‘real’ authors understand and that my exercise in blathering will ultimately prove to be not much more than the flailing mind of an old man, deluded into believing it was doing something of some importance. Then again, who cares as expectations of others’ reading my tome do not exist. And yes, it will qualify as a tome, having reached 300,000 words already. I’m on a trajectory to match Tolstoy’s War and Peace in terms of length, while the idea of an epic novel might not be realized.

Hints of Auguste Escoffier are at work in the kitchen at the Simpson; the chef also wears the hats of a Monet capturing the gardens of Giverny, though Don Carlos shapes his desert environment according to his own whims, just as he does with his culinary creations. Something else to note is that the volume here is turned up as though Balzac were also present, channeling impressions of the politics, philosophy, and culture of modern life in America, contrasted with a time when the sense of savoir-faire ruled social life. Throw in some music from the Pogues, and you will discover more hints of why I come here to write.

But at the end of the day, I’m still responsible for traveling the lanes through my mind to explore what I can say about the landscapes I’ve been so fortunate to experience. My job, if you could call it that, is to find the astonishing beauty on the paths overlooked, not considered, or forgotten about. I love the places found in between, in the cracks and crevices, under poor illumination, and waiting for those who can appreciate what has always been there in the inherent charm of being alive.

Maybe it wasn’t abundantly clear, but the fog of uncertainty quickly dissipated, and I found my footing. With that, I was able to wrap things up with a solid flourish of productivity, leaving me confident that from where I dropped off my characters, I’ll be able to return to them, pick up their threads, and continue the story after our vacation and its inherent requirements involving blogging and photographic responsibilities.