Traveling the Travails: The Decimation of a Writing Routine

I’ve blogged before that as a traveler, I have much to learn. Not just the mechanics of how to take care of myself while on the road, but more importantly, in maintaining a proper mindset. By nature, I prefer the stability of a regular, non-traveling routine – get up early to write, commute to work, exercise, head home for (chaotic) family time, watch TV, read, go to sleep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Routine gives my creativity a place to return to; structure gives my imagination a place to ground itself.

In other words, I’ve attempted--however poorly I may have executed it--to live Gustav Flaubert’s quote: ‘Be regular and orderly in your life like a bourgeois, so you may be violent and original in your work.’

(Note: I make a terrible bourgeois.)

So I’ve carved what we’ll call my Flaubert-ality into the canals of my brain, the tissue of my body, to such a successful degree that I think if I were to die this moment, my body would still shuffle onward, hitting all the points of my schedule perfectly. Triumph!

And now, of course, this is changing.

With my recent job switch, I’m now traveling on a regular basis (this is countered by my now being able to work from home when I’m home, which is another future area of adjustment). The travel, which will likely be weekly or bi-weekly air travel, is disruptive to all levels of my being all at once. There’s the time away from family, the effects of sleeplessness on inferior beds, there’s the impact on diet, there’s the inactivity and hours of sitting and talking.

Then there’s the loss of a defined writing time.

Like almost everything else with me, it comes back to my attitude, to my accepting what is over what I want or need it to be. Where once I would have railed against the torpedo that just exploded my meticulously-honed Flaubert-ality, I’ve decided to embrace this new challenge to my artistic existence. Traveling, and how one travels, is as much a mirror of how we wander this life as our creative or spiritual activities are. If I’m a terrible traveler (which if I’m honest is a fairly apt description) it’s because I allow circumstances beyond myself, circumstances that I ultimately can’t control, to disrupt my mindset.

Rather than despair, which would have been my reaction even a few years ago, I’m leveraging the factors playing in my favor to keep on my writing schedule so that I can get my next novel written. There’s technology, for one, which allows me to access my works in progress from wherever I may be. (Thank you Google Docs and/or Windows 360.) There’s the more fluid non-work time, and although I doubt that I can actually write in the evenings wherever I may be staying, I can at least read and research and otherwise prepare for the next morning’s writing session.

I’ve devoted my post-college years to controlling the activities and relationships surrounding my creative endeavors in the false belief that doing so would somehow protect my art-making time. This didn’t accomplish what I wanted. There’s no way to shield a creative act from the world in which it is made or from the circumstances that gestated it.

What of my lovely Flaubert-ality? What of being regular and orderly? I don’t know, but perhaps discipline—getting words onto the page—has less to do with being regular and orderly, and more to do with how well you travel.

The Hauntings - An Excerpt from The Ten Vanished Memories of Charles McManus

Three a.m., a day after Charles McManus had seen his dead ex-wife for the first time in eight years at a Portland dive bar. Three a.m., a day after Carmella’s ghost had trashed his apartment. Three a.m., when dawn was far away, more a factor of distance—miles from here—rather than a factor of time. Three a.m., and Carmella came for him again.

Unaware, McManus lay on his futon in an alcohol-induced slumber.

The floor-plan of his studio apartment was like so: a single door led inside from the hallway of the 1920s, five-story, brick building. Upon entering and to the immediate left, through the closet, was the bathroom with its authentic claw-foot tub. Straight ahead lay the bedroom/living room, where he kept his futon, desk, dresser, stereo and collection of vinyl records. A massive window looked out on the drab Section 8 apartment building across the alley. Left turn at the window took you to the dining area and kitchen. The studio still possessed its original crown moldings, hardwood floors and the telephone intercom system, which all added to the vintage, funky cool of the place.

Back to the haunting. The smell came for McManus first. A moist, pungent, upturned earth aroma. He was allergic to mold, which was unfortunate given that he had chosen to live in the Pacific Northwest, and he was sneezing and hacking before he was awake and conscious of what was happening.

A tickle on the hair of his right arm. Another tickle. Just the lightest brushing and scampering on the hair of his left leg. Was that another one in his beard?

Then came the noises from the window-wall. Swish swish galumph. Swish swish galumph.

At this McManus finally cracked an eye and lifted his head from the pillow. The darkness in the apartment made inky shapes of his belongings against the window’s gray glow. There was illumination enough to spy the shadow just then sliding in the window’s upper panes. Sliding along the inside of the glass.

Swish swish galumph. Swish swish galumph.

There was another noise, too, or maybe it was the same noise but better clarified:  the arrhythmic bark of flesh skidding along glass. The same noise he made when he was wiping down the windows with cleanser.

Whatever it was, the mass dragged downward in an angle along the window, descending with slow, jerking motions from ceiling to floor.

McManus sat up.

The shape on the glass spun—was that a leg?—and slid back up into the black, concealed safety of the ceiling.

He reached on the wall above him for the light switch and flicked it on. Brightness blared throughout the room, momentarily blinding him.

All at once, the smell changed over from molded earth to the sticky spoil of garbage. His trashcan, which he stored under the kitchen sink, had somehow traversed the room and emptied all over the comforter that lay atop him. Undulating heaps of cockroaches were orgy-feasting on top of him. Some had gone foraging beneath the sheets.

He leapt from the bed, still watching the window and the ceiling. Whatever mass-possessing shadow had been up there was gone.

McManus would need to be up in a half an hour for his shift at the bakery, anyway, so he brewed coffee and cleaned the garbage. Then he killed all cockroaches that had dared enter his bed-sheets. It would take several showers, and several loads of laundry, before he could make that tickling sensation on his arm, leg and face go away.

Carmella’s ghost, it turned out, was just warming up.


She got him again the next morning, again at 3 a.m. He awoke with a start, scanning the darkened room and testing his skin and bedding for intruders. He found nothing amiss, but he flicked on the light just in case. Believing he had the all-clear, he rose from his futon, and stumbled through his hanging clothes to the toilet. Although the toilet seat was up and he had a clear shot for the bowl, his urine splattered against his knees and onto his bare feet. Something was blocking access to the water. With a painful clench, he suppressed his stream.

A wavering movement to his left. The sleeves of his shirts were dancing, as if pulled from above by strings or webs. Strings or webs that he couldn’t see. Then the shirts slid off their hangers, tangled together, whipped and snapped, formed a shape, a shape with many arms and legs.

McManus watched all this in a frozen stupor, his cock receded from his hand as blood flowed to the fight or flight reservoirs inside his brain and body. Time to go!

He flicked on the bathroom light, remembering that doing so had helped shoo away the haunting the previous morning, and that was when he saw that he had pissed all over his cherished vinyl copy of Fun House by The Stooges. Carmella’s ghost had wedged the album beneath the seat so that it covered the bowl.

“Bitch,” he shouted at the mass of undulating clothes, but the shirts now lay in a quiet heap as if they had been piled there all along.


The next morning, at 3 a.m., McManus had set his alarm so that he would be awake to anticipate Carmella’s attack.

He thought that by being fully conscious and less susceptible to his dream state, the power of her haunting would be less severe, but her attack wasn’t abated in the least. One moment the room was dark and still, the next, every light bulb in the studio lit brighter than they had ever burned. His breath rushed from his body as a darkened mass dropped onto his chest. He shoved his arms at whatever had planted itself atop him, but his arms pushed through air.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

Every light bulb burst in a small explosion of glass and smoke until he was in the dark with the thing pinning him down, the mass that was impeding his airflow but that he was somehow unable to grasp or shove. He was certain that this was the same shape that had been crawling across his window a couple nights ago. Now it slid around on him—was that a leg?!—as if clamoring for better footing. He struggled to free himself. That deep earth, molded over scent caused him to hack and sneeze. He was going to suffocate. This was how he would die.

In the next moment, the inky shape rose off him, floating upward as if on a web-line, and retreated into the shadows of the ceiling. He gasped. Bright spots flashed in the periphery of his vision as oxygen made its way back to his brain. He rolled off the futon and onto the fir flooring. He lay there until the strength returned to his arms, then he lifted himself up and lit a cigarette.

Groggy and yet partially insane from three nights of little to no sleep, he thought, OK, this haunting shit is pretty damned persuasive.

Novel Update and Excerpt from The Ten Vanished Memories of Charles McManus

In case you've forgotten, I am first and foremost a fiction writer. A fiction writer whose second novel is nearly complete.

The Ten Vanished Memories of Charles McManus is my 'fast' novel, meaning that it has taken only four years (and counting) to get to where I am now. Like I said. Fast. Absolutely screaming.

And where am I?

In the next couple of weeks (I'm planning for the end of the calendar year), the current draft will have exhausted my ability to edit/read/tolerate it any longer, which means that the thing will need to be released in its entirety out into the wilds of actual human readers. 

A few of you--OK maybe one of you--might be interested in what I've been working on, so I'm going to devote some more of my blog posts to novel excerpts. If you have the inclination, please let me know what you think.

Thank you, as always, for checking in.


Despite the hauntings and the random trashing of his possessions at his studio apartment, McManus still managed to arrive at the bakery, prepare the flats of bread, muffins and pastries, and hit his delivery times. After work, he found himself staying at the bars later than he wanted because, thanks to Carmella’s ghost, his apartment wasn’t the sanctuary it had once been. So he took to wandering the streets of downtown Portland, chain-smoking cigarettes and waving off the dealers who approached. He spent hours staring at the Willamette River, the same oft-polluted waterway where he had years ago tossed his wedding band when Carmella and he had lived downriver in Eugene. He watched traffic crawl across the Hawthorne or Marquam bridges, feeling as if he existed in some parallel dimension that lay alongside the living world. He simply didn’t know what else to do, or where else to go, so he gave himself over to wandering the night.

It was on one of these nights that he passed the storefront of a psychic reader. He had wandered past the cobalt, neon sign several times before, but on this particular night, after he had gotten home from work, he had discovered his clothes strewn about the bathroom floor, piled inside the tub and even crammed into the toilet. He called Carmella’s ghost ‘a crazy fucking bitch’ and stormed out. Why him? Of all the many people she could have confessed the desired location of her burial to, why had Carmella chosen him? Entrusting him with this information was a curse, and that was probably why she had picked him. In fact, he knew that was why she had picked him. Imparting personal knowledge was Carmella’s ultimate act of aggression, because once you knew a single fact about her, she could hate you for possessing this sliver of knowledge and lash out with no restraint.

Without thinking on the matter further, McManus entered the psychic’s shop.

Candles the width of mailing tubes lit the space, and ornate cloth riddled with paisleys draped along every flat surface. In the center of the room sat a round table surrounded by chairs that had been carved with stars, moons and serpents. A heavy curtain blocked access to the back, and florescent light leeched behind the gap between floor and fabric. He guessed that was the office behind there. He cleared his throat and asked if the business was open. The florescent light switched off.

A woman threw open the curtain. She was taller than McManus, and all skinny angles and bony lines doused in a clingy silk outfit; he guessed she was in her fifties.

“I am Saskia,” she said. “Sit.”

He hoped there might be some negotiation of price so that he could politely back out, but she sat and scrutinized him. An open expression of shock crossed her bony face.

“You are haunted,” she said, her voice rising in both pitch and volume, “a spirit clings to you. Someone who shared time with you…you and she were not close but you were trapped together. Caged.”

McManus settled in and said, “My ex-wife. She’s been at me for over a week now. Haunting me, like you said.”

Saskia studied the space just above his right shoulder.

“She has no peace,” the psychic said as if Carmella were telling the other woman her mind. “She has nowhere else to go. Spirits usually cling to a place. This one has attached herself to your memories. She feeds on them.” Saskia slurped her lips into her mouth to make the accompanying sound effect.

“I need to send her a message. She wanted me to remember something. I have. Now I need to tell her what I’ve remembered so she’ll go away.”

Saskia said, “I trust that you have already told her what it is she wants to know.”

“Fuck yes.”

Saskia quit the table and returned with a green, glass sea ball the size of a volleyball and used to float the nets of Japanese fishing vessels an ocean away. She set the sphere atop a kickstand-like wood perch at the center of the table and slid into her seat.

“Give me your hands.”

“Is that supposed to be a crystal ball?”

Saskia glared at him and said, “I know my trade, and I know the tools of my trade. Sea-forged glass is the most powerful there is. Would you like to communicate with your ex wife now?”

McManus slid his hands to the woman’s. She clenched them and said,

“Look into the green.”

He watched the orb cloud over, not with smoke but with condensation. What had moments ago been transparent was now opaque and impenetrable. Fogged.

“I don’t see anything.”

She squeezed his hands again until they hurt, imploring him to shut up. He continued to study the sea ball.

He half-expected Carmella’s disembodied head to appear, like the crystal balls in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland, but what he saw in short order was his apartment. The view was from the ceiling, gazing down on the futon. Records cascaded to the floor, his stereo tipped and fell, and his bedding zipped this way and that as if a giant, invisible, and pissed off toddler had been loosed upon his sheets and pillows.

“Goddammit,” he said.

“Tell her,” Saskia said, “tell her what she wanted to know.”

“Fine,” McManus said. “Carmella, I know where you want to be buried.”

The dervish dance of destruction ceased. Saskia gasped and then convulsed as if by seizure.

He wasn’t sure what was afflicting the woman, but McManus pressed on and said,

“I can contact your new husband. Your current husband, I mean. Let him know the specifics. Everything will be OK.”

Saskia spoke between ragged breaths, “No, no. She says that you must do it.”

“Do what?”

“You must be the one to move her body.”

McManus tallied the reasons such a scheme would not be possible. He picked the most salient from the dozen or more that presented themselves.

“She isn’t my problem anymore. This doesn’t need to involve me.”

The image of his apartment within the sea ball receded, and the condensation cleared, giving way again to transparent, emerald-hued glass. Saskia, who was apparently free now from whatever affliction had seized her, slumped in her chair.

“You are not telling me something,” she said. “This spirit is powerful. Vengeful.”

“She visited me,” McManus pointed in the direction of the bar. “During Happy Hour. She sat down and talked to me. She looked OK, you know, for being dead.”

Saskia sat forward. “That is not good for you.”

McManus told her about how Carmella’s every appearance would result in the loss of one of his memories of her, but hauntings, hauntings were free.

Saskia pushed out her bottom lip.

“She is reckless. Stealing someone’s memories will have unintended consequences for her. And as for you, she has no qualms about putting your sanity in danger. She must truly despise you.”

McManus waited for the woman to say more or perhaps contradict the information he had received from Carmella, but Saskia didn’t.

“I thought you were going to help,” McManus said.

“I have done all I can tonight,” she said, “Fifty dollars, please.”

“Hold up. We can’t, I don’t know, exorcise her or some such shit?”

Saskia studied the empty air to his right again, and said, “She’s already decided what it is you must do for her, and she’s committed that request to a Universe that means to enforce that decision. Neither of you will know any rest until you do this thing for her. You can ignore her request at your own peril. That is all.”

He made for the door.


McManus turned; Saskia’s expression had gone again to that stoned, constipated pleading.

“A sole offering sacrifices one but saves two.”

“What was that?”

Saskia shook off whatever force had enthralled her and slid behind the curtain. McManus waited a moment longer just to be sure the psychic was done with him, then he walked home to his ruined apartment.