I think it is worthwhile to periodically take a big picture look at your life. How did I get here? What are the patterns of my life? Such an investigation into past decades could be depressing, I suppose, but I prefer to engage in a bit of humor and self-deprecation. So here we go.
I’m perched in a café in Athens, notebook splayed open like a sacrificial offering, scribbling feverishly about gladiators and gospel while a stray cat eyes my souvlaki. In my head, I’m channeling the ghost of Paul of Tarsus, debating theology with a toga-clad barista, and researching what slavery was like in the Roman Empire. As I dodge a flock of pigeons that think my feta crumbs are manna from heaven, I think about how much I value writing and traveling.
I didn’t set out to become a peripatetic scribbler. (Yes, I just used “peripatetic.” Blame the past, when I used to teach ancient Greek.) My novels—Onesimus, that dusty romp through the Roman Empire; Nuff Sed, where a Kansas farm boy turns desert rat; or To and Fro Upon the Earth, my philosophical odyssey into the abyss of human stubbornness weren’t born in some ivory tower. They occurred to me during a layover in Istanbul, hurriedly scribbled in my Moleskine notebook at truck stops in the Mojave, and hammered out on a laptop balanced precariously on a camel saddle in Morocco. (Well, all, but the camel in Morocco, although I do recall a picture of my mom and dad riding camels in Morocco.) substitute my Jeep Wrangler for a camel, modded for off-road explorations and writing retreats? Picture a rooftop tent, a cooler of Scottish ale and whiskey, and me, mid-sentence, realizing the stars above look exactly like the indifferent eyes of the universe in my current work in progress, seven planets.
For me, travel is the ultimate co-author. It doesn’t just provide scenery; it provides new input, fresh ideas, and shakes me out of routine. For example, a jaunt to Ephesus that helped me with writing Onesimus. I soaked in the marble ghosts of antiquity, imagining a runaway slave eluding Praetorian guards. There was also the fear of heatstroke, where a tour guide named Dimitri lectured me on Byzantine plumbing while I fanned myself with a crumpled map. “You write about Romans?” he asked, eyebrow arched. “They had aqueducts, my friend. Many centuries before the west! You’d be much better to write about that.” That snarky exchange became the voice of a minor character, a fellow slave who ribs the protagonist about his plan for freedom.
I explored the southern deserts of California and Arizona, chasing the ghost of the historical Steve Ragsdale, that indomitable soul who tamed the California badlands in Nuff Sed. Trudging over sands to find an old hand dug well, meeting an elderly man at a historical Society who knew Desert Steve: all soil from which I could re-create Steve’s life. Travel strips away the familiar and what you think, you know; it forces you to confront the absurd, don’t sweat the small stuff, and provides insights that are not possible otherwise.
Of course, it’s not all epiphanies and espresso. After writing 2000 words the night before, and then riding in a boat out to an island, I suddenly realized that my protagonist in needed to have a stent on a commercial fishing boat. Go back and rewrite! A chance conversation in a Hotel pub with the owner of the largest pistachio companies causes me to go back and research the use of pistachios in ancient Roman meals.
And that’s the beauty of this writing life. These experiences are the marrow of the story. Meeting so many strangers, telling me their stories, some of which I relate to, some are totally new, and some make me wonder what makes this person tick? Such a unique palette from which to draw. Writing without travel is like cooking without salt: functional, but forgettable. It has taught me self-reliance and resilience, that same grit I weave into many of my characters: they are hot messes fumbling through fog, trying to find meaning in purpose (much like their creator). And whimsy is a lifeline. Laugh at the delayed flight that strands you in a no-WiFi purgatory, being thrown out of a club just because you happen to be talking to an unknown drunk person who decided to cause a stir (“I’m not with them, I don’t even know their names,” is not a defense when management has a “one strike and you’re out” policy. I can’t blame them.
Traveling and writing for so many years have taught me how to pack light, pack, quick, and see everything as inspiration for writing something, be it fiction or non-fiction, a novel or short story, an essay or a blog post, I’ve realized that the road has also rewritten me. The experiences, the human condition, the surprises and the boredom, the triumphs, and the failures, are all the yarn from which the tapestry of my life has been. Buy me a pint, or a wee dram of Oban (neat, water back), and I’ll spill all the stories until you plead a full bladder and escape.
So I’ll keep wandering, following detours, and keep writing, until I can’t do it anymore. For me, the journey’s the thing. (it’s also tax-deductible).
Whether a writer or not, what are your experiences when you travel? How do they change you, or make you evolve? Drop a comment if you wish. I cherish hearing other people’s stories.
Markus McDowell is the author of historical and speculative fiction that asks, “What if?” while wondering, “Why not?” Find his books at markusmcdowell.com, or stalk him on X @markusmcdowell or doctormarkus_author on Instagram for more.
You must be logged in to post a comment.