DAY 1, Florida
Depart 9:30 am with the air-conditioning blasting. Saw swallow-tail kite and 1st road kill: a lustrous turtle-shell vacated on I75 north.

11:18 am: a black-tailed mystery in the median, identified by scent at mm 319. Skunk. Also something flat with a leg near Jasper.

Georgia state line at 12:56 pm. Pink and white floral cushions at Exit 18. Black and red cushion ten miles later. Jeff: "Poor things."

3:00 pm, on secondary highway in North Georgia, it feels like The Walking Dead country. Odd, intense little churches between pecan groves. Lush hayfields.

Roadside tragedy: on the shoulder, a dead armadillo and the remains of two or three vultures.  Wonder if a bored driver went all "The Great Santini" on them. 

South Carolina at 6:49 pm. Many billboards.

North Carolina at 8:09 pm. 

Overnight at Hendersonville, NC, 9:30-ish. Chilly outside the car. No sign, really, of the Civil War horrors from the highway. Passed an exit called "Bat Cave" too quickly to react with anything but astonishment. Who knew?

DAY 2
Start at 7:16 am. Top up gas, coolant, oil. Listen to NPR while noticing that North Carolina has (had?) a lot of possums.

Virginia. 9:05 am. Passed Hungry Mother State Park. Resolve to look up details, but not while the vehicle is in motion. Urp. 

1:00-ish near Fairfield, VA, stop for traffic congestion, notice rear tire has decided bubble-wobble. Exit and manage to find tire to match eccentric rims. Back on road at 3:23 pm.

Maryland at 5:47 pm. Spring is just starting up here: dogwood in bloom.

Pennsylvania at 6 pm. A pair of groundhogs dead on the road: Fat, nearsighted fools in love. Bright yellow forsythia blooming.
7:24 pm: Spotted live groundhog on shoulder of highway. It looks remarkably similar to a tree stump. But with a nose.
10:00 pm, arrive D & B's house. Ahhh. 

DAY 3
10 am hit the road after yum diner breakfast. Many dead deer in northern Pennsylvania. They made it through the winter only to die crossing the road. Ironic. Tiny green leaves on the trees. 

11:10 am, New York state.
1:00 pm, spotted our first Tim Horton's. The diner, not the exercise guru. More irony.
1:50 pm, our first dead porky-pine just north of Syracuse. Spring is barely here: the grass is green but the trees are bare. 
5-ish: arrive at sister's. Safe, alive, whole. Thanks, world. 

Writers don't get a lot of encouragement outside their overactive imaginations. As a rule, they face widespread disinterest, active rejection, and harsh judgment. A writer develops self-esteem and focus. Or she quits. 

And yes, I do understand that this makes a rather tidy  excuse for my own vanity, bullheadedness, and those possibly delusional levels of self-confidence I so often enjoy.  

Still, writers persist. 

They keep hoping for readers. They aspire to give readers something,  to pass along a message. They maybe dream about making a little money. They -- and by this I mean me –– want to prove that the identity they've cherished on the sly (a writer! an actual writer! a not-so-awful writer after all!) is true in the wider context.

I recently parted company with my agent. It was (taking a big breath) a difficult and painful choice on my part: having gained the attention of a reputable and successful agent at a big-name agency in New York, it felt like running the wrong way with the ball to let her go. 

But I did. 

And now, I'm an aspiring novelist without an agent. Again. Does being again without an agent make me less legitimate in the wider context of readers and publishers? Uh, yeah. Duh. Granted, traditional publishing is changing fast, and granted, the innovations have a solid business plan, but still.

Anyway, why blog about this? (Eeyore chimes in with, "Why blog about anything?" He also says, "Thanks for noticing me.")

Because, in my not-so-secret heart-of-hearts, I think it's the point. To try. To fail and yet keep trying. To use my allotted days  in an effort to make something cool to share with people.  

And, frankly, to see if I too can help some poor creature survive a long airplane trip by telling a story that makes him forget that he's stuck in a narrow seat high above ground. (Thank you Kate Atkinson and Stephen King for -- in your different ways -- doing this service to humanity for me recently.)

And for now, I think that means sticking by the traditional route to publication: an agent, a publishing deal, subsidiary rights, etc., etc.   Alrighty then, where did I put that Kevlar Cape of Self-Confidence? Ah yes, there it is, next to my tin Magneto helmet and that nice stretchy Lasso of Truth.  What-ho and away, Silver!

My minion recently changed allegiance. 

She looks to the Food God for her treats these days, and it is his side of the bed she visits to be reassured in the middle of the night.

Despite it being ME who carried her down the stairs for the emergency midnight pitstop last night. And ME who prepared the hot-water gravy that made her kibble breakfast extra-super delicious.