by Hilde Garcia
Easier said than done.
I had wanted to write about many things such as lofty ideas and writing
styles, or how to speak to your agent while revising your novel. On our family’s first road trip, I’m thrilled
at the prospect of traveling the country via car and posting prophetic
thoughts. I also planned to finish the
next draft of my manuscript to send to my agent.
Everything went wrong outside the Holland Tunnel in New
Jersey.
First of all, beware of snacks your kids are fed by well
meaning grandparents and friends of the family while on vacation. Mixed with milk, it makes for a nasty
combination.
“Hey kids, look there is the line that divides New York and
New Jersey underwater.”
“Oooh,” kids chime.
“Mommy can I have some milk?”
“Sure,” I say. It’s
the first hour of our roadtrip and all is well.
We’ve had a great week with the grandparents who served as amazing tour
guides. New York City survived our
motley crew. I’ve opened up my laptop and
I’m ready to write.
“Look, kids, we are in New Jersey,” says Daddy. We take the sign that says 1-78.
“Mommy, I don’t feel good,” says my son.
Before I have a chance to turn around, I hear the oh so
familiar sound of vomit being projected all over the back seat, his clothing
and the new and nicely packed car activities.
“Crap!” Yep, I said
it in three languages. I yelled at my
son. I swear to the moon. I am pissed and thankful that my computer
didn’t get slimed. My husband is mad at
my swearing and because I yelled at our kid.
Then I remember throwing up in the same place, at the same
age, many years ago when I lived in New Jersey.
It must be genetic.
“Oh, sorry, dear and sorry sweetie,” I say, close to tears
from the smell and from being such a bad mom.
But I was looking forward to finally sit down and write after a fun
filled week of madness. Instead, it’s
clean up on aisle six.
I call my in laws who are following us for this first leg of
our journey and signal them to pull over to the most run down gas station I
have ever seen somewhere off of Exit 14 in Jersey City.
“Ok, battle stations.
Mom, you get Sam and hose him down in the bathroom. Here are new clothes for him.”
I ask my daughter to sit and color and not move as I open
her window. My husband grabs a hose and
starts on the toys, art supplies and bottle caps. My son had collected quite a few of them,
compliments of the drink fest from my husband, his brother and their
friends. I break out the wet ones and
begin disinfecting the car, the floor, the seats. My husband is attacking the car seat cover
within an inch of its life.
After about 30 minutes, we are de slimed and ready to hit
the road. When my son says, “Can I have
more milk?” There is a resounding NO
from 2 adults and his sister. Before we
get on the road, I secure all slimed clothing in a zip lock bag. Yes, I am prepared and tell my son that the
paper bag in front of him is not for his car, but in case he needs to hurl
again.
“Hurl?” My sons says.
Both my husband and I laugh.
I’m in no mood to write. I’m
trying to get over the smell and the clean up and there is no alcohol to help.
We spent the next day in Virginia Beach. I meant to write that night too, but my best
friend’s husband showed me the most exquisite collection of coins dating back
to Alexander the Great and muskets from Revolutionary days and well there was
no writing.
“So honey, aren’t you going to write?” I’m in the car, counting mile markers on the
way to Charlotte. I consult an old road
map- on purpose- no GPS for us on this trip.
We went old school and decided to just find our way without electronics.
“Sure,” I take out my laptop and set myself up in the front
seat while the kids watch a movie. But I
shut my eyes against a nasty sun glare and the hours of no sleep finally catch
up to me. And well, there was more
snoring than writing.
My husband nudges me awake.
“What about your self imposed deadline with your agent, dear,” he grins.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.
I’ll do it when we get to Charlotte.”
Right. I wipe some drool.
But there are other obstacles in Charlotte, North Carolina
which make it impossible to stay on task.
There was sushi to eat. Cake to
savor. Wii to play. Wine to sip.
No writing, yet again.
The post ideas got out of my head, the keyboard does not
entice me, but an entire bag of starburst did as we traveled to Tampa. I’m sneaking them while the kids watched
their movie. I mean, what kind of a role
model would I be if my kids see me eat candy for breakfast?
I played baseball trivia, set up the kids with their
activities and movies, feed everyone, monitor pee breaks and consult a
map. No time to write. I will do it in Tampa.
In Tampa, drinking ensues, visit old friends, many hours in
the pool and it isn’ t advisable to write with a laptop near the water. I do start a letter to a friend that has been
three years over due. Seriously, they
live in England and don’t have internet, so I’m determined to get them that
letter. I only have twins, they have
triplets. Certainly, I should be able to
write a measly letter?
We arrive in Miami and drink margaritas on the beach for a
week.
I return to sunny CA and unpack us, get us settled, get kids
in camp, catch up on paperwork, emails, calls and all that jazz and two months
later, finally have time to write a post about writing while on vacation.
I highly advise against writing on vacation. It can be hazardous to your vacationing. But, then again, throw up outside the Holland
Tunnel makes for good Middle grade fodder, doesn’t it? And, no, I haven’t finished the letter to my
English friends.
Happy trails. May
your iPad always be safe.
And may you always find time to write.
by Kris Kahrs
