Tonight I’m feeling reflective and thought I might post something more personal than usual. The last year has been a wild experience. I’ve been living on the road full time, traveling from place to place, living in my tiny home on wheels. My only companion has been my yellow lab, Penny. She listens to me sing badly to my playlists. I’ve watched a never-ending fall morph into an eternal spring and now I’m living at the verge of summer, stopped over in North Park, CO for the summer.
Around 25 years ago, I decided I wanted to become a writer. I originally wanted to become an artist. I was self-taught, but my first art class in college showed me how much I had to learn before I was even bad at it. I lived with some guys I went to HS with for a year and we tried to become rock stars. We played covers of classic rock and alternative music in our garage. We even made an album and played a battle of the bands. That might have been our rooftop concert because we broke up. The whole time I should have been practicing, I was writing instead. A really awful draft of a story about an assassin who works for a corporation. It was to be very film noir. Bladerunner meets Leon. But man, I loved to write. Where I wasn’t that great at pencils and charcoal, I discovered I was much better with words.
Fast forward twenty-five years down the line. I’ve been writing full-time now since Covid. Some days are harder than others when looking down the barrel of imposter syndrome. I’m working on two different novels. I write content for a few clients, I am also travel writing and pitching to magazines on topics that interest me. I freakin’ love it. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. No more sitting at a desk, working in an office, watching my life tick-tick-tick away. It feels like a dream.
It’s not the best paying job in the world, but every time I write, every story I finish, every by-line with my name on it is something that makes me truly wealthy. I talk to amazing people. As an introverted extrovert, I have the added benefit of grabbing a note pad and pen, slinging my camera over my neck, and telling myself I am not out of place. Jeez. How many years I felt like I wasn’t invited to the party. Now, I’m a Writer. I get to tell the stories that I see. I can sip whiskey in the night and listen to softly playing music and it’s part of the job.
Yesterday was no exception. I got to interview someone for a story and on the drive home, I had to pull over and start sketching it out. Getting the words down. It was all right there and I couldn’t put it off. I had no choice. The Muse had grabbed me by the collar and gave me a good shake to catch my attention. I love moments like that. Days when the story takes hold. I get excited about it. More than I got excited about drawing or playing the drums. There’s no comparison in those bleak years when I was scheduling rooms at a university.
These are strange days indeed. I’m on an adventure. I’m seeing the world. I’m meeting awesome people and telling their stories. Every once in a while my story peeks through too. I’m creating my own life and the experience has been incredible. I never thought I would become Uncle Travelling Matt from Fraggle Rock, but here I am, writing about all the silly creatures in my post-cards.
Right now I have three stories under contract for magazines, a few regular clients, and gas money for the next leg of the trip. Two novels in progress, a blog, and a podcast I’ve been neglecting. I’m also becoming a better photographer.
A friend of mine asked me where I plan to go next. To be honest, I hadn’t thought much about it until she asked. Forward. That’s the best answer, I suppose. I can really go just about anywhere. No matter where I go, there I am. There’s so much yet I want to see. Maybe the hardest part is trying to decide where to go first.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel out of place. I’m home, wherever I wind up. That’s home. I’m grateful. I’m damn lucky.