Travel: New experiences—even lingering elevator odors—help authors bring their pages to life

I feel extremely blessed to be able to travel. Being an independent author doesn’t leave much of a budget for extracurricular activities such as traveling. So when my well-traveled audio professional husband has accrued enough airline miles, I tag along.

Keeping my writer’s eyes alert to the different sights and sounds of the new places makes for excellent story telling. Oh, even the various smells. 

Okay, so we have to share the world. Most of us must live around other human beings. Most of us have more than a silent volleyball with blood-smear features with whom we must share our space.

So elevators. They are small rooms that seal occupants inside as they ascend and descend to the desired floors. I am consistently amazed by the level of scent that lingers from the past occupant(s).

For example, in the space of one 24-hour period during our week long stay at the Courtyard Marriott in Midtown Manhattan, I encounter three different distinguishing odors. For seven floors. Just me and these pungent aromas. Coping with these copious aromas involves sparking the imagination as to who or what brought them into the elevator.

Number 1:  Heavy cologne and perfume. Not bad. Kind of strong and musky for my taste, but makes me think of a couple all dressed up for a night out in one of the most extraordinary cities in all of America, New York City. Possibly enjoying dinner at an elegant restaurant, or cocktails at a swanky club. I personally do not participate in either of these activities so I use my imagination. Where ever they went, they will smell good doing it and have a good time…hopefully.

Number 2:  Coffee. One of those aromas you know the instant it hits your nose. Oh the lush roasted, heady, beany and warm scent. This coffee far exceeds the standard hotel-issue bags that are stocked in the rooms. I imagine the steaming cups are of an exotic brew, possible from the deli next door to the hotel, where everything is fresh and delicious. The person who carried two cups (because the aroma was so strong) up to their room, perhaps will share this rich warming elixir with their loved one, on this chilly autumn day…hopefully.

Number 3:  Super sweaty body odor. It was Sunday afternoon, on the day of the famous New York City Marathon. I had just finished a morning of some light shopping and lunch, and decided to stow my bag from Sephora in my room, and grab my laptop for a writing session in the beautiful Rose Main Reading Room in the New York Public Library (one of my favorite places in NYC). I stepped into the elevator and was hit with this thick humid and acrid decomposing-ish odor.

My mind flashed to marathon footage I’ve seen of people who stumble and flop across the finish line like rag dolls because their bodies were giving out. While I admire the discipline and physical stamina of people who choose to run marathons, the stench their weary bodies leave behind nearly made me lose my turkey and cranberry sandwich on artisan bread.

In my effort to try to always remain positive, I imagine a victorious runner wrapped in the mylar-like blanket knotted at the neck like a metallic superhero cape, with the shiny metal draped around his/her neck, taking the elevator (what, not the stairs?) to their room to take a long, hot Silkwood-scrubbing-scene shower…hopefully.

Even in light of strange odors, new experiences in a town or region where you don’t live are invaluable. Some place or situation I have experienced somewhere is good fodder for fiction writing, and fills novels with life-like situations. And providing interesting and entertaining writing for my readers is important to me. In my latest novel in progress, the lead protagonist experienced a similar spiritual encounter I had in St. Ludwig’s Church in West Berlin, Germany.

So I find joy in all the challenges that arrive in traveling, even when confronted with the strange and sometimes sickening elevator odors.

The Question of Comfort

I love to be comfortable. “Lounge wear,” as Old Navy calls it consisting of t-shirts a stylish stretch pants, and bare feet are my uniform for my work-at-home career in writing. When I watch episodes of Mad Men on Netflix, I cringe in astonishment at how uncomfortable women must have been back in the 50’s and early 60’s when they dressed in girdles and heels all day.

 More than my clothing, I like the comfort of being well rested. I like the clear mind that a full night of sleep brings. Being a full-time writer affords me the ability to alter my schedule to get my much valued sleep. That is, until a few days ago when I decided I had been sans dog for long enough and it was time to get a puppy.

An eight-week-old chocolate-colored, four-legged, needle-toothed, ball of energy has taken over my life and transformed me into a light-headed comprehension-impaired zombie since I have been only getting 3-4 hours a night of sleep.

Did I pray about the major decision to get a puppy? Yes, a lot. I proceeded cautiously seeking God’s permission the whole way.

After the first night of staggering out the backdoor with a little puppy hopping happily behind me, I was so tired, I was sure I was going to be sick. I was beyond uncomfortable. I was miserable.

                  

Did I hear God wrong? I felt like I had made a huge mistake. I was so tired I couldn’t get any writing done, music or prose. By the fourth night, I was seriously entertaining the thought of putting an ad in the paper:  “Chocolate Lab puppy for sale by sleepless owner.”

               

 I’ve raised puppies before, so I knew what I was getting into when I purchased the pup. I knew about taking the pup out for potty breaks in the middle of the night. So why was it so different this time? Why was I so miserable? So stressed-out and lacking in patience?

                 

Lacking in patience. That phrase caused me to pause. Patience is the fruit of the Holy Spirit. Had I coveted my comfort so much that I was not able to be filled with the fruit of the Spirit to the depth that He desired? I’m thinking yes, I did. I pondered this thought as I waited under the moonlight at 3:33 AM while the puppy bounded happily around my backyard instead of doing her business.

                 

Did God give His blessing for me to get a puppy knowing it was a good opportunity to clean out my selfish pursuit of perfect restfulness? I’m thinking yes, He did. His blessing also created a situation where I need to daily press into and rely even more on God to get through the day. He emptied me physically so I could be filled spiritually.

One of my favorite Bible verses says, “’not by might, not by power, but by My Spirit,’ says the Lord God Almighty” (Zechariah 4:6). I’m living in that verse, even now as I type these thoughts with a second cup of coffee next me and bigger-than-carry-on-size bags under my eyes.

                 

One day little Abby will outgrow her puppy-ness. She will be an adult dog and she will use the doggie door on her own while I get a little more sleep. But for now, not only will she be a loving pet sleeping beside me while I write (as she is now), but she will always be an instrument of teaching and blessing from God to me.

1,000 Gifts -- Part 1

One thousand gifts sounds like a lot. If you had one thousands gifts listed on your Christmas shopping list, you’d have to start in July to shop for everything, wrap it all, and then deliver or mail the packages on time.

Currently, I’m challenged by the study we are doing in the women’s ministry at my church, Northwest Fellowship, to list one thousand gifts I’ve received from God. The study is excellent and the teaching videos that accompany it are soothing and bucolic, narrated by the study’s lovely, soft-spoken author Ann Voskamp.

As I consider this challenge and begin my list of one thousand gifts, I’m beginning to think there may be that many gifts bestowed on me by the Creator in one day. Each day. And inside each gift is another gift, and if I take the time (a whole other topic unto itself) to examine each gift, I can began to see these many other gifts inside.

If I could take one of God’s gifts into my hand and slowly with purpose unwrap it, I would begin to see more gifts. I would turn it around, look at it closely on all sides, I would see that each of God’s gifts are multi-faceted like a perfectly cut gem, affecting me and changing me in the ways I need it most. The gift I received and unwrapped today solidified that thought.

The first gift I’m unwrapping in this series of counting one thousand gifts is the gift of God’s word. In the study guide for the Bible study aptly titled “One Thousand Gifts,” I was instructed to read Matthew 14:15-21, which describes a miraculous feeding of over five thousand people. With the concept of God’s gifts still rattling around in my head, I read the passage. It correlated perfectly with many facets in my life right now. It’s a gift. A gift that calls for unwrapping.

I read about how a large group of people followed Jesus and He had compassion on them. He healed their sick, as I personally have experienced Him doing, and daily ask Him to do for myself and for others.

It was evening in the story, as it is now, as it is just about every time I write.

Their need was great, as is mine. The hour was late and the place was desolate. The Amplified Bible lists the setting as “remote and barren.” Exactly how I’ve been feeling as of late. Night after night during my writing time, I stare at the pesky little blinking cursor on the Word document that houses the latest novel I’m working on. It flashes impatiently waiting for me to type out some witty and entertaining yet spiritually insightful stream of consciousness to “feed” those who would read it and be satisfied of both head and heart. Blink, blink, blink. Nothing comes. Desolate, remote, barren. And the hour grows later.

The disciples told Jesus (mistake #1 – telling Jesus what to do as if He didn’t already have an awesome plan. I mean, didn’t they just see Him heal a bunch of sick people? But I digress…) to tell the crowd to go away so they can get fed somewhere else. It’s like me and my whining, “Lord, I can’t do this. I don’t know what to write. I’m too desolate…tired, empty and missing my beloved husband who is out of town on business.” As if to say to Him, give this task to someone else.

He says to the disciples--and to me, “You give them something to eat.”

Like the disciples, I point to the fact that I have nothing to give, except, maybe this little bit of desire to tell stories to get people to think about God and knowing Him better. I see it like five loaves of bread and two fish. Hardly enough to satisfy five hungry souls, let alone five thousand.

Five loaves. My twisted mind flashes to a photograph I once saw that was taken by my one of my favorite photographers, Robert Doisneau. The picture was of Picasso sitting at a dinner table. He had two sets of five tiny loaves of bread spread out in front of him perfectly placed as if they were his chubby fingers resting at the edge of the table. It was hilarious.

I look down at my hands hovering over the keyboard. Scarred and purple from bouts with Raynaud’s Syndrome. A finger on one hand is a struggle to straighten; another digit is recently healed so now I can type with it.

Two fish.  I think about the other necessary tool for writing, the mind. Two halves of a brain, filled with thoughts swimming about randomly. Thoughts that are wildly creative and others not so much, like, “did I turn my flat iron off?”

Like the disciples, I admit that this is all I have. So when the Lord commands, “Bring them to Me,” I do as He says.

He ordered the people to sit down on the grass. So, instead of roaming about my house distractedly performing little tasks, I stay seated on my rhymes-with-grass, at my desk in front of my computer. I sit still and pray, giving Him my hands and all of my mind.

Jesus took the five loaves and two fish, and looking up to heaven, He blessed them. And broke them. And He gave them back to the disciples who then gave them to the crowd. And they all ate and were satisfied, and there was even bread left over, twelve baskets full.

He received, blessed, broke, and gave back, and gave back in abundance. I need to receive His blessed breaking of my reliance on myself to create, and use it to give out to others of what He has given, knowing they will be satisfied abundantly because of what He did.

I look down at the left-hand corner of my screen and notice that I have written nearly one thousand words, and will probably be slightly over that amount when this is finished. Each word a gift of His giving, proof of His working in me. One gift of a Bible verse to me contained one thousands gifts in it. One thousand gifts in one day. In one sitting. With the blessing and breaking and receiving from God,  this gift will in turn, God-willing, be a gift to someone else. (1,068 words, in case you’re wondering.)