©2012 by Richard Jordan I met Quincy in July of 1984 at a campground just west of the McKenzie Pass on Highway 242 which runs between the Willamette Valley and the town of Sisters on the east side of the Oregon Cascades. We would spend the next five days together camping out in the wilderness that lies at the foot of the volcanic peaks known as the Three Sisters.
©2012 by Lorrie Goldin Emma, my 22-year-old daughter, has long dreamed of Russia. At last she is there, studying for a semester in St. Petersburg. It’s not Siberia, but the vastness that separates us feels like a kind of exile.
©2012 Christine Oneto During the Christmas holidays and throughout mid-January, I had an issue that no writer would like to have: I could not type! Although I can often type faster than I write, my fingers wouldn’t move – quickly or otherwise – as carpal tunnel had reared its nasty head! The worst fear I had ever had was now coming to fruition: Could it be that someday I could not physically write?
© 2012 by Lorrie Goldin I’ve long wanted to visit Crater Lake, but my husband refuses. “It’s hot and dry and endless,” he objects, recalling a boyhood vacation with his parents. So instead I’ve roped our daughter, Emma, into a detour there. Crater Lake will be my reward for driving her back to college instead of putting her on a plane.
©2012 by Kalpana Mohan It’s one thing to grow up in India’s middle class and travel as a local. But traveling as a well-to-do non-resident Indian who is taking in everything around her as part of her work requires wearing trifocals. I was peering into things that I had taken for granted when I lived in India as a young woman; I wanted to talk to people I would not have deigned to talk to in the past. I was interested in doing things that I’d never have dared to do before. On this trip, drivers became my best friends.
@ 2012 Tami Casias You know you have to get out when you find yourself ironing rather than writing. So when I needed to travel to my daughter’s home in Nebraska at the same time that I had writing projects due, I started looking at my options.
©2011 by Dr. Joan Steidinger The concept was simple: attend a sports conference in Hawaii, then – and most importantly – travel to Nepal to run a three-day stage race to raise funds for a small Nepali orphanage. Nobody had explained much about the race, but that part of the journey was destined to become a major adventure.
© 2010 by Dick Jordan For the past three nights I’ve heard the explosions from miles away. I’m not in Afghanistan or Iraq; I live near San Francisco. It’s just fireworks, bombs bursting in air, going off in the sky over the nearby County Fairgrounds.
© 2011 by Todd Crawshaw Navigating through life as a writer you will, at times, feel crushed like roadkill on the superhighway. It’s unavoidable. My advice, when this happens, is to take a deep breath, chant the philosophical mumbo jumbo (i.e., the pabulum of gurus) “life is a journey…not a destination…life is a journey…” And voila!
©2011 by Anita Jones Anyone who says writing is a lonely business has never spent time with a roomful of hardheaded fictional folk bent on having their way. Unlike boring, predictable humans – and for the sake of story, conflict and change – characters are inevitably ego-tripping demigods that writers must turn into minions with omnipotent appeal.