If you had asked me in grade school what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d have probably said “pastor,” like my dad. In junior high: “architect.” In senior high: “automotive designer.” (I still have most of the literally hundreds of concepts I drew in my attic bedroom.)
But then, half way into high school, I somewhere discovered that I could put words together in a way that other people found worth their time to read. Since the Christian college I could afford had a writing major; and the automotive design school was $30,000/year in 1995 dollars, I majored in Commercial Writing.
In the fourteen years since English 101, I have discovered my personal voice, the joy in the struggle of the craft, and the wrestling mat where I make sense of the world.
With back-to-back-to-back record years in the biplane hangar, I’m finding less and less time, though, to play with words—except for my commercial blog. But even that biweekly article tends to get the bulk of its transcription and editing done at the eleventh hour. My to-write list has become the troll hiding under my to-do list.
So, the other day, I flippantly told Crystal, “I think I’d like to take a writing sabbatical.”
To my surprise, she interjected, “You should.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I think you should do it.”
That was it. Empowered by Crystal’s approval and encouragement, I set about planning a different kind of getaway. As both a business trip (to research and produce future AdverRyting articles) and a personal escape, I had to find a place that would:
1. inspire me to write
2. provide different environments conducive to long writing sessions
3. offer some broader horizons to bring home in both words and pictures
Thankfully, I had almost 58,000 American Express points burning a hole in my pocket—enough for most places in North and Central America, though not Europe, Africa, Asia, or the Antarctica I want to snowmobile someday. Since I’m not a beach person, I shrunk the remaining map to north of the Rio Grande. While normally glad to have friends and family all over the map, I had to choose a place far enough from them so as not to invite, “Why didn’t you stop by and see us while you were out here?” My map started to have holes bigger than AT&T’s orange coverage chart.
But then, in the gerrymandered remainder of my Google Earth screen, I found a city I had never explored, a compact downtown with massive, beautiful libraries and comfy mom-and-pop coffee houses. A young city with towers of corporate glass and renewed brick faces on frontier-era buildings, this place had more pensive waterfront and breath-taking mountain vistas than even I need to induce introspection. Throw in a couple half-day adventures, a hip church blocks from a conveniently-located hostel, and pervasive mass transit, and my day dreams sprang to life.
So, since Lebron already took enough talents to South Beach, I decided to take my pen (and pending iPad) to . . . Vancouver, British Columbia. And, if you’ve read this far and/or regularly look at my pictures on Facebook, I’ll let you come vicariously with me.
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