Name that tune update

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

Okay, we're halfway there. I have five songs submitted. There's a lot of MJ on everyone's mind.

1. Ben - Michael Jackson
2. ABC - Michael Jackson
3. I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor
4. Margaritaville - Jimmy Buffet
5. Why Don't We Do it in the Road - Beatles

Not that any of these songs are bad in themselves, but let's just say you are the school principal -- I Will Survive could be your mantra, but you might not admit to loving number five on our list.

I've left out the names of readers who suggested these. Mine is worse, I promise you. Don't be shy. Give me five more songs and I will reveal my shame.

I haven't gotten Sam to tell me his. Yet. I'm putting some serious effort into it. More on that in a bit.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Into the Oven

Chevy Beauville Van on Flickr - by roadsidepictures 


Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

It turned out that Sam lived in the same trailer court as Mia. He had her key, but not the knack of using it. After jiggling, rattling, and cursing, he offered me a shot at it. Mia had one of those doors that opens out instead of in. So you have to put your shoulder against it, lean a little weight into it, before the key will turn the lock. Obviously, Sam was a newbie at trailer dwelling.

The door swung open and the heat hit my face, searing my tonsils when I gasped. I found myself turning back to snatch a breath of the cool ninety degree air outside.

There was an air conditioner in the kitchen window that neither of us could get going.

I saw an electric window fan leaning against the couch under the living room window. "She's got a fan in here, Sam. The AC probably doesn't work."

"How the hell can she live here with those two little boys and no AC?"

I shrugged. It didn't seem like a big deal. I'd lived lots of places without AC. Now if this were Texas, it would be an issue. "Is there a fan in Mia's room? If we set it up, we can get the air blowing through one window and out the other to cool things down a bit."

He looked down the hall and folded his arms across his chest. "I don't know."

"Well go look." I had wrestled the living room window up and was lifting the fan to sit on the sill. He shoved his hands in his pocket and glanced down the hall again, but didn't budge.

"She might have personal stuff in there."

I clicked the switch and the fan purred to life. I dropped onto the couch in front of it, letting the warm breeze dry the sweat running down my neck. Things move slower in the heat, especially my brain cells, but the implications were adding up. I took a moment to really look at Sam.

"You're not Mia's are you?"

He could have said a lot of things. He could have resented the implication he was owned by a woman. He could have pretended not to know what I meant.

He pulled his t-shirt off and dried his face with it before he answered.

You guessed it: my eyes locked on that beautiful male chest, the sprinkling of blond curls, and the sweat droplets glistening there. I couldn't help it. I was licking my lips before I realized it.

I'll be really honest here -- with you and with myself -- what Sam did say, was not what I wanted to hear.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Fifteen Books in Fifteen Minutes

Craning for a book on Flickr - Photo Sharing!

The Rules:

1) YOU MAY ONLY TAKE 15 MINUTES TO COMPLETE THIS EXERCISE - NO EDITS ALLOWED

2) List fifteen books you’ve read that will always stick with you

3) Post your list on your blog and drop a link into the comments here

I found this on Alice Gray's site and decided to join the fun. I chose the novels on my list in no particular order. Some, like Lying in Bed or Love Walked In, have such a strong poetic voice that I can't forget them. I would say that is true for most of the books here. But there are a few that took stories in a new direction or crossed boundaries that I hadn't seen crossed when I first read them. I included the first futuristic romance I read and the first time travel. The We Tell Stories Project is not a single book but it introduced me to the world of interactive fiction and ARG.

Lying in Bed by M. J. Rose
Love Walked In by Marisa de los Santos
Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd
Shadow and the Star by Laura Kinsale
The Crystal Cave by Mary Stewart
Broken by Megan Hart
Hide by Lisa Gardner
The Woods by Harlen Coben
Warrior's Woman by Johanna Lindsey
The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
Nine and 1/2 Weeks by Elizabeth MacNeil
Shadow Heart by Laura Kinsale
Knight in Shining Armour by Jude Deveraux
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
We Tell Stories Project by Penguin Books and Six to Start

Monday Poetry Train: Black Fruit

Flickr Photo Download: Garden of the moon

The seeds are locked away in a vault,
in an icebound cave,
and there they will stay,
until there is time,
until there is courage.


Your seeds are the germ of desires
too secret, too dark to share,
and so they are left on ice
never to blossom, go to fruit, go back to seed


It's a shame.
You could have sown those fantasies
in me.

View other poets on the train.

Name that tune

Van on Flickr - by Kenzie W!

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

Apparently, I agreed to a walking tour of the town. My stuff was stashed in Sam's van, and when we got outside he walked past it, up the street toward the river. That's cool, after hours on the bus it feels good to be out walking around.

It's hot and I can see the sweat trickle down his neck. A drop trembles at the edge of his collarbone. If I were to press my lips there, glide my tongue along the firm edge of bone, I would taste him slick and salty.

I have to stop thinking of things like that.

I try to pay attention as he talks about floods and points to the painted marks that record high water levels. Each mark has a name beside it. Some I recognize, like Isabelle. Others, like Hazel, are before our time.

He leans over the railing next to me, his arm touching mine. For a moment we are both quiet, aware of the contact, aware of the currents it creates in us, pretending we're only watching water roll under the bridge. I have to wonder what it is in Sam that has me feeling like I'm clinging to a branch while this flood of forbidden emotions threatens to tug me free and wash me downstream.

He turns away, catching my hand to lead me across the road and down along the other side of the bridge. At the next intersection he turns down a shady street.

I shouldn't let him hold my hand. It's not like I'm a child who might get lost. I try to think back and can't recall even as a little girl, someone leading me by the hand. Surely, I would remember this feeling, this sense of being cared for, warmth rising like a sun in my stomach.

Sam's fingers intertwine with mine, making me feel like someone he doesn't want slipping away. I can't make myself part with that warmth. I lose track of where we are as he talks, telling stories about various landmarks and homes along the way.

In between stories he whistles a tune and it feels vaguely familiar, but I can't place it. That bugs me. I have a million song playlist in my head: every word, note, and chord on file. What is that song?

I still haven't figured it out by the time we're back at the van ready to head for Mia's. I asked him what the song was when he opened the door for me.

He looked confused , "Song?"

"The one you're whistling." I whistled a little bit back.

Color rose like a rash up his neck. He shrugged and flipped the manual door lock. "Careful of the door, she pops open now and then."

He was launching into another story when he climbed behind the wheel and slipped back into whistling by the time we hit the third traffic light. Then he noticed me smiling at him, coughed, washed the song away with the last of his soda and didn't whistle anymore the rest of the way.

What is that song? It's got to be lame if he's embarrassed to tell me. Everyone has a song they love that is so lame they don't want anyone to know they love it.

Tell me yours. I bet you have more than one. We'll make a road game of it. For every ten lame songs you all send in, I'll reveal one of mine.

I bet you I manage to pry Sam's out of him before I move on. What is that song?

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

H-H-H

 H-H-Hby mtsofan

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

Somewhere between my first burger and the third, Sam’s knee connected with mine. We were both wearing cut-off shorts and tank tops. There’s something magnetic about bare skin inches from your own. So it was destiny that at some point he was going to turn just so, his knee would connect with my knee and he’d be so busy talking that he wouldn’t notice, and the heat would run up my leg like electrons through a wire when a switch connects. It was like my internal battery got a quick charge; every nerve in my body hummed, and current resonated in waves though my stomach.

My fair weather mood shifted; I was the three h’s: humid, hazy, and hot.

I tried to deflect some of the attraction, choosing that moment to point out he was still wearing the Mia-sent-me sign. It marked him as property of my cousin and I needed to remember that, needed him to remember. He glanced down and yanked the paper plate. The string, pink yarn, snapped and slid from that sweat-beaded neck and traced a path over the planes and angles of his shoulder, a path my fingers itched to touch. I put my right hand under the counter, slipped it between my knees, and clamped them tight against it.

His long fingers crumpled the plate and he dropped it on the counter without even looking. He was looking at the hand between my knees. His Adam’s apple rose and fell before he grabbed his soda and took a swallow.

It says something about a guy, that he can wear a stupid sign like that in the first place and not worry about looking like a dork. It says something that he could walk around with it on after, and really look like a dork, and not even be embarrassed when you point it out. Where does that kind of ease with yourself, and the world, come from?

Our conversation consisted of him talking and me adding nods or mms whenever there was a pause. I noticed when he was throwing longing looks at the last burger and I pushed the plate toward him.

God, that smile of his slices right through me like lightning parts a tree. He leaned toward me when he reached for the burger, his body brushing mine and then settling back, but not quite as far away as before.

I tried to pretend I didn’t notice. I didn’t pull away and turned my attention to the last bite of my burger. There’s not much space between those little stools and Sam was a big guy. I could feel heat from his arm. Add a coat of sunscreen and we’d be touching.

He said, “Don’t you think?”

I had no idea and I wasn’t about to admit that I hadn’t heard anything he said since his knee hit mine and that I couldn’t remember anything from before that.

I nodded and hoped for the best.

Gleaming blonde hair had drifted down over one of his eyes, begging to be swept back. I locked both hands between my knees now, palms pressed together.

He pushed it away himself, one blue eye did that half wink thing, and his lips curved in that lopsided way. White teeth flashed as he said, “Well then, that’s what we’ll do.”

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Landing in Sam...er...Laurel

Depot Laurel, MD on Flickr - Photo Sharing!


Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

You know how you can be walking along, not really paying attention to your feet, and next thing you know you’ve fallen in a hole you didn’t see coming? That’s what happened with Sam.

Mia was supposed to meet me at the bus stop, so I wasn’t expecting a tall blonde guy with a paper plate sign on a string, draped round his neck. I recognized Mia’s handwriting and that shade of red lipstick spelling out, “Mia sent me.”

When I got off the bus, he looked right at me and he hit me with this cute smile: one eye scrunches in almost a wink and one corner of his mouth tips up -- sorta like he’s laughing at himself while he’s grinning at you. I guess you have to see it to appreciate how endearing it is. I could see why Mia added this guy to her collection.

I was the only passenger getting off at this stop, so I guess it wasn’t hard for him to figure out I was the cousin he was supposed to pick up. We shook hands and introduced ourselves anyway.

The driver had the baggage out on the sidewalk, so I grabbed Matilda, but before my hand could close over the shoulder strap of my backpack, Sam had it. He offered to take Matilda, but I needed to hold onto my old guitar just then, needed a shield between me and the little lightning bolts that were shooting from his eyes straight to my stomach.

“Mia couldn’t get out of work today, so she asked me to look out for you until she got home.” He followed up the explanation with another of those smiles.

Normally, I distrust people who smile a lot. Sam’s smile felt so genuine and warm it was hard to keep the shields up. I wanted to tip my face up toward it and let it soak into my skin like sunshine. I tried to resist, frowning, backing away.

“You don’t have to baby-sit the cousin, Sam.  Really, I know the way to Mia’s. I’ll just grab some lunch, hang out in town a bit, and head over there later.”

Stern frowns must not mean the same thing to Sam that they do to most people. His smile got bigger, brighter. He caught up my hand, and tugged me along, his pace picking up.

“Lunch. Good idea. I know just the place.”

Little Tavern Laurel, MD on Flickr - Photo Sharing!

When I saw the object of Sam’s culinary affections, it didn’t look like much. In fact, it rather looked like a guaranteed night of food-poisoning recovery. The inside was as plain as the outside, but clean, so I relaxed.

Flickr: Search by Bill on Capitol  Hill

But when the food came…well…I had to question his sanity.

Of course, I should have been suspicious when he ordered a dozen hamburgers. I thought, he’s hungry, and that explains the look of ecstasy at the mention of food. But when you see these little burgers -- no bigger than a fifty-cent piece, and served up on dinner rolls -- you think, Are they kidding me!

Flickr: Search

And I guess you have to taste one first, kind of like Sam’s smile, to appreciate what heaven is.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Goodbye Garden State

Large Old Barn and Silo on Flickr - by cwalker71


Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

My cousin, Mia, has plans for me. She lives between D.C. and Baltimore. I don’t have to ask to know there’s a guy in those plans somewhere. Mia collects guys like some women collect shoes. Only, no one tries to find new homes for their shoes. I’m not worried though, I got some thinking done in New Hope, and I have a plan no guy can change.

I’m on the bus, heading south through the Garden State, and I’m watching the farms flick past the window: a slide show of lopsided barns, produce stands, and rusting tractors. On TV they always show you farm families gathered around big tables that sag under the weight of crockery,  filled with mountains of chicken and mashed potatoes and peas.  A basket of saucer-sized biscuits is making the rounds. Everyone laughs and talks at once. You can smell the love. I wonder if it’s really like that down on the farm. Are these the kinds of places kids at college were homesick for?

I never got homesickness. I can’t comprehend it. I’ve always moved from one life to the next like chapters in a book. I can’t imagine hitting a chapter and saying, well this is it, I’ve found the one I want, and I’ll just keep reading this one, thank you very much. Or would you hit chapter seven and say I really miss chapter three? Would you go back there and skip the rest of the story?

I can’t imagine, but I want to know that feeling, the feeling of finding the place you belong, that sleepy town with a sturdy little house and a job that isn’t headed overseas. I accepted a job in a hospital in Washington State. We’ll be working on prosthetic device designs.

It’s a job. It’s not a passion. It’s a practicality. Amputees need limbs. I need a job I can count on. Dad says, you should follow your passion, live your art in your job. Well, we see how that works out.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Review for Greyhound Summer

Flickr Photo Download: Greyhound bus by germeister

"I’m not sure how I arrived at Greyhound Summer, the interactive novel written and blogged by Nara Malone, but I am sure I like it. The main character, Arie, reminds me of ..."
Read more

Be Afraid Dark Man

Blogging the Dark Art ARG Week Two

Be afraid Dark Man. We're coming after you. Saturday we started sifting through the clues to solve the murders in the Personal Effects:Dark Art Novel. This is the most fun I've ever had reading a book.



This is Violet, checking some facts. Wait, what's that over her shoulder? I didn't see that when I snapped the picture!



Our sleuth headquarters has great atmosphere.



Our notes and clues.



Tracking clues online.



Caroline and the body pic. Now this is one that Kelly liberated from the Brinkvale Site back in January I think. They locked down the login right after that, so we assumed we weren't supposed to be in there yet. Sasha confirmed that the writing on the boat is Russian, something like shore patrol.



Violet holds up the picture I liberated from the hospital files during the winter. We had figured out the message hidden in the painting.



My burger and coffee were getting cold, so this is the last pic I took. We're still following leads, so there will be more to come.

Walk Through Me

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.




I keep running into what I'm walking away from. From getting stuck on the bus playing pod music to landing in New Hope and getting sucked in to keeping company with an old musicman.  Musicman, maybe playing with you, will wave a magic song and cure me, or at least set me free of songs for a few hours. Hours of inner silence are what I crave, hours where melodies don't trill in my brain or leak through these fingers. Fingers have a higher purpose than filling the air with sound waves. Waves,  electrical waves mapped on the screen of an oscilloscope are useful, practical. Practical is not schlepping from club to club or fair to fair, playing tunes for half-drunk audiences. Audiences  are not the goal of life.




Life should turn out worthy of the time poured into the central task, the task you call your art. Art is the only friend you have that will never leave you. You get to pick your art. Art that picks you doesn't have to be the one you are stuck with like a life sentence. Sentence someone to a life earning a living through music and you sentence them to empty. Empty pockets, empty dreams, empty lovers. Lovers of the man's music, rarely see and love the real person behind the song. Songs don't keep you warm, or fed, or from winding up an old man on a bench, playing for quarters and dimes.

Dimes landed in his guitar case and mine. Mine more than his and I felt like a thief. Thieves don't try to give away their spoils, and when I tried to give him mine, he just smiled, shook his head and patted my back.

Back on the the town tour, I kept Matilda tucked away, and the sketchbook in my hands. Hands drawing hands, or ducks, or flowers.



Flowers are the one place my mind finds the silence it craves. Craving the details, catching the colors, I get transported to that silent spot where there is no sound and there is no thought and I can just float in and out of the world taking shape on the page.



Pages turn one into the next, like the days move one into another until you reach the end of a chapter, closing the door on that part of your story and taking of in a new direction. Direction is what I need, but do I find it inside, or out there somewhere along the road?

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Drawing My Way Through New Hope

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

The Meaning of Life is to see. ~ Hui Neng.

I'm finally here. And I plan to spend the day drawing my way into hope, because when you draw a thing, you have to sit with it long enough to feel what it means and make it a part of yourself.

I'll post pictures as I finish them. Wishing everyone some hope and joy this lovely summer day.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

They are Doomed

Attached Couple Fairywren on Flickr - Photo Sharing!

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

They sent a replacement bus and the old couple is sitting together now. They both live in Philly. They're doomed.

Trust me on this. I've lived with so many families I could make the Guinness Book. Men and women don't love each other for long. Sure, some of them stay together for a long time. But when you close the doors on the rest of the world and see the real people behind the couple, it's real clear that marriage isn't really about love.

Now, I'm not saying there's no such thing as love at all. I've seen parents who really love their kids. Some parents love their kids enough to die for them. Some don't.

Sent from my iPod

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Color My World With Music

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

When you’re nobody’s kid, a knack with babies is a way to land a roof over your head. So, I knew that you couldn’t let those warning bells escalate into full blow air raid siren howls. Once things get that far it takes a long time to turn them back around. I have one trick up my sleeve that almost always works. Babies love elevator music.

But Matilda’s in the baggage compartment, so I have to whip out my digital Swiss Army knife --the iPhone -- and launch the guitar app. Now, playing anything at all on a guitar app on an iPhone is tough going, so I have to come up with a song with a simple melody that is soothing and won’t buzz like crazy through the tiny speaker. I try not to think about the fact that there’s a whole bus full of irritated people for an audience. My hands are shaking and the first few notes have a stutter, but the music takes over. A thing happens when I play, like my fingers find the notes by themselves, when I stop thinking about what I am doing, when I let the music have me.

Even with the sound turned all the way up, it’s not terribly loud, but I have the toddler’s attention. She’s got a fist full of her mother’s hair and she’s looking at me with tear rimmed eyes. I’m tapping out Color My World. The little boy at my knee turns around, entranced. The baby’s fists have stopped beating the air, the motion winding down to little waves. The mom mouths a gracias to me, and I nod.

Up front, there are still warning wails from another infant and fretting sounds at scattered locations. Tension seeps into babies like fog through woods. You get the adults to relax and the babies will go quiet.

The little ones next to me are leaning in to hear. The guy in the aisle seat just in front of mine turns around. The bagel I had for breakfast is making like a boat on choppy seas. A black guy in a Public Enemy t-shirt is not going to be a big fan of this concert -- or so I thought -- but then he says, “Can you make that any louder?”

I shake my head a little, keep playing for the babies, and the dude starts to sing. And can he sing. And he knows all the words.

I smile and I really mean it.

He smiles with his eyes. Ever so sweetly, we’re charming the little ones. Or, are they charming us?

A little boy from the front makes an escape and toddles down the aisle. He pokes two fingers in his mouth and sucks while he rocks side to side. The old white lady who was flirting takes a baby from a black lady with two little ones, lifts the child high on her shoulder, pats his back and stands swaying to the beat. The guy she was flirting with whistles through the part of our song that would be the flute solo.

Nice.

We go though Color my World twice, and then I launch into House of the Rising Sun. I know. I know. I hear you groan. But my options are limited here. The babies love it, but my lead vocalist doesn’t know all the words to this one. I join him, my voice has a nervous tremor at first but it finds a harmony with his and we’re rolling. A lady I can’t see, further up on the left, pitches in with a voice sweet and pure enough to weep over.

I close my eyes, savor every note.

The kids are ours now. We own this audience. The little girl has let her head drop to her mother’s shoulder, eyelids drooping like curtains over those big brown eyes.

That’s what’s cool about music. It can bring people together, help them reach through the barriers, past the differences, and realize that  we’re all just folks trying to get through another day.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Blogging the Dark Art ARG: Reading in the next Dimension

Picture this, an outdoor cafe on a sunny Saturday in June, friends meeting for coffee, burgers, and the taste of another reality. The WiFi connection provides our portal to another world. We're deep in the story now, and it feels like going to a movie and being able to step through the screen to interact with characters and the set. We're reading the new interactive novel, Personal Effects: Dark Art,by J.C. Hutchins.

We pass props around, make notes on legal pads or the backs of envelopes or on napkins. This is like no book we've ever read. And while we read the book itself the way we've always read stories, alone, taking the journey individually, the props included with the story pave a path that brings us all to the same place: a story that we can experience together in another dimension. Some readers might stop at the last page of the book, and  some, like my friends and I, will keep going past the back cover, through our computer screens and into virtuality.

We've got a good mix of talent to serve us on our adventure: two romance writers, a couple of computer geeks, a retired detective, a lawyer, a friend fluent in Russian, a friend fluent in finance, and a Voodoo expert. Some come to our meeting of minds in person and some participate via Internet from other states and countries.

Word is that if you follow the clues yourself, you'll discover things the hero missed, arrive at a different conclusions. It's a chance to become co-protagonists. Well, we're about to find out. I'll be blogging this second phase of the story as we make our way through the clues.

Stay tuned for updates. And, feel free to join in.

Find out more about the Novel at Hutchins' site or the character blog written by the hero's girlfriend.

Stalled in Hell on the Way to New Hope

Flickr Photo Download: View from the Front Seat of the Bus by iirraa

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

We’re rolling down the Atlantic City Expressway and I’m watching two old people flirt. They have to be in their seventies. Both single and clearly on the make. Surely, they should have figured out that love is a myth by now. Fall in love. Get to know your lover warts and all. Run the opposite direction as fast as you can. Hit replay. Hit it again. And again… 

You could turn back the clock fifty or so years and I bet you’d see these two doing the same dance with different partners. All the moves are there. The hair toss. The giggles. He murmurs -- deep sexy voice style. She reaches across the aisle and gives him the you-naughty-boy-you hand slap. He chuckles.

Then an earthquake hits. A real life earthquake right here on the bus!

The bus is shaking, making sounds similar to a Godzilla death rattle and the floor bucks under my feet. A horn blares when the driver cuts someone off, making for the side of the road. I hear brakes locking up, more horns blaring. I grit teeth, grab the seat in front of me and the little boy wedged between me and his mother. He was standing between our knees, because her hands are full with an infant and a toddler. I’m braced for the sound of crunching metal.

It never comes. Driving in Jersey is good training for NASCAR. I watch other drivers dodge the stopped cars, the ones spun sideways in the road. Just like at the races everyone sorts themselves out and drive on as if nothing unusual happened. Babies, however, are not so forgiving.

We’re not even halfway to Philly, where I have to make my next connection, and we’ve broken down. The adults on the bus complain, fidget, peer out the windows at the driver, who is outside and under the bus now.

But there’s a storm brewing. I count more than half a dozen kids under the age of four and they are fretting. One is already starting up with little bursts of agitated cries -- the toddler right next to my ear.

The infant is waking, thrusting fists out, waving them about. I know enough about babies to know we’ll be in ear-splitting hell in about five minutes. Stalled in hell on the way to New Hope. Perfect.

---

Good news!!
The Editors at textnovel.com selected Greyhound Summer as an Editor's Pick. If you're enjoying this story, help me make it into the finals of the competition with your vote. Just click this link and vote me up by clicking both the thumb symbol and cellphone symbol next to my story. I know it's a pain to have to create an account, but it's free and you'll gain access to all the great novels on the site. You could be helping this author toward a publishing contract. TIA

Goodbye Atlantic City

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

Sometimes life jumps up and gives you a hard slap across the face. That’s what watching Wade go down in that arena was for me. At first I thought he was dead. He would have been if he’d come down on his head. I’m still trying to absorb that. Or more accurately, I'm trying to erase a mental image of his neck in as many pieces as his arm.

He’ll be okay. The arm will take a lot therapy to make it usable. There’s a couple of cracked ribs that have to heal. His dreams of a PBR championship are likely dead, but he’s not.

Still I can’t forget that clip of time from Saturday night. It runs through my mind like a You Tube video.

I kissed him for luck, watched him climb up in his chute, and three minutes later they were loading him on a stretcher. It can be over that fast.

I don’t know why I can’t let this go. It’s like that video clip is stuck on replay. I guess Wade made me feel too mortal.

Set that next to the family drama of yesterday, when I turned up at lunchtime and hadn’t called all night. Oh yeah, there was major drama. There was a repeat performance that evening. Maybe later I can talk about them, but right now, right now I feel like someone zapped me with stun ray and I can’t process another thing.

I’m not even feeling the pain of my Dad leaving without a goodbye. It’s not fazing me that Willa is taking me to catch the bus. I couldn’t tell you what she said on the way, or if I said anything at all. She gave me a cardboard hug before I boarded. I smiled at her.

When the bus rolled out of town, I looked back as long as I could, watching the Atlantic City windmills turn, a lazy, soothing spin against against a scarlet sunrise.

Red skies in the morning are supposed to mean trouble. I don’t plan to stand still long enough for any to find me.

I’m headed for New Hope, PA -- my first stop -- because I need a little of that.

(Thanks, Grace, for the recommendation.)

When winning a "Madness" Competition is a good thing

My posting here on the blog trickled to almost nothing when my Dad died a few months ago. I had no energy for anything and started to wonder if I'd ever find my words again. When words did start to trickle from my pen, they were so dark that I joked to my sister that if the family saw what I was writing they'd have me committed.

I wrote my way out of the blues, eventually, and the project that played a big part in helping me get there  won the poetry portion of eMuse's Summer Madness Contest:

We received a number of fantastic submissions. As I read through them I found it difficult to choose winners in each category. I wished on more than one occasion that I had more than three copies of the book to give away, but alas, our budget is only so wide, and three copies are all we have.The winners are as follows:
·
Art: Christie Lindauer·
Fiction: Drew Beatty·
Poetry: Nara Malone

The winning pieces will be published in the September edition of eMuse, so tune in next issue to see the amazing contributions we received.
eMuse Summer Madness

Congratulations to the other winners!

A friend said last night, "I bet your Dad would be proud." I think she's right.

More Reasons Not to Date a Cowboy

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

Because, you will wind up spending Saturday night in an overcrowded emergency room with a rodeo clown for company. The clown, of course, will juggle stale doughnuts from the vending machine, tell you bad jokes, and do everything he can to make you believe none of this is as worrisome as it looks.

Meanwhile the cowboy gets x-rayed and pieced back together. You get to sit with him and hold his hand between torture sessions. He will smile, tell bad jokes through clenched teeth, and do his best to convince you none of this is as worrisome as it looks.

But you know it is, because he broke the arm he hangs on with in three places. You know it is because you’re watching the nurse give him a fourth shot of morphine. She assures you that he can’t overdose, because he’ll start to throw up when he’s had his limit.

Right after he apologizes for the tenth time -- for what he believes is the worst date you’ve ever had -- he starts to throw up.

Just for the record, it wasn’t the worst date I’ve ever had.

Why You Shouldn't Date a Cowboy

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

Here’s why you shouldn’t date a cowboy -- they’re too small.

Oh sure, they look impressive with both feet on the ground, when they have their arms around you, and they have to bend down kiss your lips. When your lips are just level with a guy’s nipple line, it’s easy to believe he’s big enough to take on the world. The big hats (and the buzz you get hanging around behind the scenes at a rodeo with a bunch of guys that just ooze testosterone) add to the illusion.

Creative Commons License Paul J Everett

But when you put him up on top of a big ole mean bull like Loco Moe – he shrinks.  He looks like a Weeble on Godzilla’s back. And that’s before they open the gate and Loco Moe goes whip-snapping across that big arena. That’s before your cowboy gets tossed off the backend and connects with powerful hooves that make like a rocket launcher and shoot him toward the moon. He launches like a bale of straw.

He looks so tiny when he goes sailing up, up, up in the air.  But he looks smallest when he comes back down, when he hits the ground with a crack you feel jolt through your own spine, when he’s a motionless speck in a sawdust arena. When he doesn’t get up.

Done With Being a Ghost

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

I survived my party. So did the cowboy, mostly because he had somewhere else he needed to get to, and because he left before my dad could do anything completely stupid. At first, I thought Wade was making up an excuse to escape the wacky family, and me. But then, he invited me to the rodeo Saturday night and followed my acceptance with a convincing grin. After Wade took off, I coaxed Nadine and Eddie into taking me back to Willa’s house.

Upstairs in my assigned room, I tossed the bus pass on the dresser, put my dad’s CD in my laptop, and set it to rip tracks to my iPod. Then I reached for Matilda.

Most kids have a special teddy bear, or doll, or blanket growing up; I had one of my dad’s old guitars. She’d been with me since before I was big enough to carry her without help. I ran my fingers over well-worn paths in the finish, and pressed my cheek into the curve of her body. Matilda was the one constant in my life. I’d been raised by a string of relatives, across a string of states, and Matilda had been by my side on every journey.

“It looks like we have one more trip to take,” I told her. “But after that, I’m starting a new job, getting a place of my own, and we’re never moving again.”

A soft sea-scented breeze stirred the curtains. The bedroom window looked out on a sandy garden. This place was a rooming house -- from right about the time Atlantic City was founded by the look of it. Willa had closed it for the summer and now I knew why. Rundown as it was, I knew that property this close to the boardwalk must be worth more than Dad had made in his entire career.

I moved to the window where cool air washed over my face. I licked my lips and tasted salt. Standing there, looking across the city lights and into the night sky, I felt so small. I was about to be booted out of the nest to take on the world by myself.

Where the hell was I gonna go?

I had a whole summer to fill up on my own. Not only that, but I was going to have to dip into the little stash of cash I had in order to get by. Travel, even by bus, wasn’t cheap.

One thing was certain, the bus ticket had been my dad’s gift and idea. Willa would likely have sent me on a cruise to the Antarctica. And, while it might be tempting to think he’d married Willa for the financial benefits, that wouldn’t have mattered to Dad. He always paid his own way. The only thing that had mattered to him was staying lost in his music, and staying away from me. As for the women who paraded through his life, Eddie called them Dad’s drug of choice.

A sharp beep signaled the end of the copy process. I propped Matilda in the corner, pushed earbuds in place and stretched out on the bed. With my head propped on two pillows, I could see a big moon hanging in the sky.

The first song was, If I Could Only Fly. My dad calls it Arie’s song. The only person I’ve ever heard sing this song better than Blaze Foley is my Dad. I’d heard Dad sing it a zillion times, at family gatherings, at wedding parties, in bars. He sings it best over the phone to me -- because when I’m far away, he can let himself love me. And even though he sings to me, I know he’s really singing it to my mother. I’m not sure he knows it, but I think everyone else does. In my daddy’s mind, on the night my mother died, I stopped being Arie and became my mother’s ghost.

Well, I was done trying to fix my Dad’s broken heart. I was done trying to make him see me. I was done with being a ghost.

I closed my eyes and felt the lump of my dream tighten in my throat. I let it go and the pain drained away with it, because things only hurt if you hang onto them. My Dad taught me that.

---

What's the Best-Kept Secret Destination in Your State?

One of the best secret destinations I've been to was a waterfall in Washington State where you could ride down it on your bottom just like a water slide. I went to a biker bar in California once where they had a hearse suspended from the ceiling, but I don't know how secret that spot was. I have a whole summer ahead of me and I'm looking for those unique and exciting places a bit off the beaten path. I want your secret fun spots. I leave Monday and I'm desperate for suggestions. I can go anywhere in the US until Labor Day. Leave details in the comments.

Greyhound Summer: The Party's Over

Photo by crownjewej82 on Flickr

Just joining me? Catch up on the Greyhound Summer story here.

So, there I was with the papers that say, in bold gray-on-blue lettering, what I have refused to hear him saying: YOU ARE NOT WANTED.  How many Greyhound logos did I have to have slapped in my palm to get the message? I could feel the image burn like a brand when my fingers closed around the packet. And would you believe that I still wouldn’t let myself believe it?

“Thanks, Daddy. Really, this is too much. I’m fine just hanging out with you for the summer.”

Obviously, he wasn’t fine with it. I know it’s pathetic that I wouldn’t let it go. I’m twenty-two and still clinging like a little girl. Most grads want to get far away from their parents as fast as they can. But then, most haven’t had their upbringing outsourced to the relatives.

“That’s the other part of the surprise,” Willa chirped (and she did sound like a bird, with a voice so bright I felt an urge to cover my eyes) as she shot me that be-a-good-girl-and-don’t-make-trouble look the wives get.

My Dad frowned, looking from her to me, like he felt an undercurrent and couldn’t quite puzzle it out.

Willa rummaged in a purse big enough to hold a guitar.

I don’t dislike Willa. I’ve never had any bad feelings toward any of the wives. I can’t say those feelings were mutual. I’m not sure why.

Willa made more chirping sounds and produced a handful of CDs.

She gave one to each of us. Why Eddie and Nadine each needed their own, I don’t know. The label was obviously indie, which meant there’d be cases of these in somebody’s garage. Probably Willa’s. It looked like she was going for the let-me-manage-your-career-to-stardom role. I preferred manager wives to let-me-be-your-mother wives. But, a mother wife would have been more helpful this summer.

I stared at my Dad’s picture under the cellophane wrapper. My fingers itched to reach out and touch his hand resting on the table, feel it warm under my own. My thumbs stroked down the sides of his plastic-wrapped face instead.

“One of my friends recorded this CD for your Daddy. We’re going on tour for the summer to promote it.”

Ah, the summer tour circuit -- county fairs, and plenty of bottom tier bars like this one. How long would Willa last? Would those stars in her eyes came crashing to earth under the reality of searching for that big break that always fizzles to nothing and cracks your heart in two on the way down?

I turned the CD over in my hands, sliding my finger down the slick wrapping as I scanned the list of songs, hoping I looked like I was really reading. I wondered why my Dad didn’t give up on marriage, or music. How do you keep believing things will work out, when they never do?

“Well, isn’t that something,” Eddie said, flipping the case from one hand to the other. His voice boomed as loud as a radio announcer’s and the light caught the gleam of a toothy smile hidden beneath his bird’s nest beard.

Nadine followed Eddie’s lead. “I guess we have ourselves a double celebration.” She emptied the beer pitcher into my glass and flagged down the waitress.

You can probably guess -- I’m not socially gifted. I’m the kid that has to be pushed to go play with the others. I learned early that playing music got you out of having to think up things to talk about. But after this round of bad beer and pizza, throw in my stage fright and I wouldn’t last five minutes on stage.

Everyone was quiet, waiting for me to say something. I looked across the room at the cowboy and he was looking back in a way that made my stomach feel like the surf was up. I could make a fool of myself by sitting here and starting to cry in front of everyone, or I could make a bigger fool of myself by joining my Dad on stage, but it occurred to me just then that I had a third option.

“Yes, ” I said, my voice as chirpy as Willa’s,  “we have some serious celebrating to do. Play something lively this next set, Daddy. I’m gonna go ask this cowboy to dance.”

I don’t think they believed me. I didn’t believe myself. I lost my nerve halfway there and decided to walk on past him and down the hall to the ladies’ room. But he was watching and, when I got close, he did the asking.

He said his name was Wade, and he said it with a southern drawl that made you want to wade right in and listen to his voice roll over your eardrums forever.  Turns out he was a rodeo cowboy, a bull rider. By the time Wade and I had got past introductions and onto the dance floor, my dad was up on the stage, bellowing a slow song about a drunk, no-good womanizer.

So, Daddy was pissed. Well, so was I. I ought to really blow his circuits and go home with the guy.

Wade moved around the floor with surprising grace for a guy with a limp. I’d been hoping he was a worse dancer than me, but it was easy enough to find his rhythm and listening to him talk I forgot to feel awkward. He was warm. Romantic. Even with my Dad sending him death glares. And, he didn’t seem put off by the gang back at the table staring holes through us.

Being a bull rider and all, I thought he would hang on until the end of the song signaled the end of the ride and then scramble for the safety of the bar. But he kept on dancing, even after the music stopped, even through Dad’s long speech about the next song -- Daddy really hated musicians who rambled on about every song before they sang it -- and even though the next song had an impossibly choppy rhythm.

One hand rested on my hip, and after a little bit his thumb worked under the hem of my tank top, stroking at the bare skin just above my low-riding jeans, a course calloused texture against my soft skin that plucked a shiver from me. I tipped my head back to look up at him, my long hair skimmed over his fingers and against my back where my top had ridden up. His eyes were almost closed, the way I know I close mine when I’m lost in a song. His other hand curved around the back of my neck, the thumb stroking just behind my ear, and the fingertips resting along the vertebrae in a way that made me think of fretting notes on the neck of a guitar.

When he noticed me studying him, he smiled and we talked more trivia. He was from Texas, and in New Jersey for the rodeo at Cowtown on Saturday night. Apparently, Cowtown was just a bit west of here and a Mecca for guys on the rodeo circuit. I told him I was born in Texas, but was from a little bit of everywhere. He joked that if he was going to get home without being beat up by the band, I’d have to go along and protect him. I warned him that my going along would bring Aunt Nadine down on his head and he’d be better off taking his chances with the band.

Then somewhere in the middle of talking about nothing, he asked, “So what’s the family feud all about?”

Funny, a stranger can see there’s a problem and my family can’t. But maybe that’s not exactly true. They see the problem, but we pretend our way around it. Who has the energy for all that drama?

“No feud,” I said. “It’s my graduation party.”

It was too bizarre an answer not to be the truth. He could have asked a hundred questions: Why aren’t there friends your age here? Why here? Does your family follow you around and watch you on all your dates too? Are you home-schooled or something?

It says a lot about people, what they ask, and what they don’t.

“Hell,” was all Wade said.

And it was.

Free Pass to Anywhere but Where I Want to Be

Creative Commons Search photo by mtsofan_on_Flickr

My graduation party was held in a washed up western-style bar out on Black Horse Pike. Why? Because, my dad got a last minute gig filling in for a band that cancelled. Because, Aunt Nadine got it in her head that my father had to show up for at least one of the big events in his daughter’s life. And because, after this college graduation it would be hard for Nadine to inject her will over our affairs.

Never mind that there were only four of us celebrating  -- not counting my dad and his band. Never mind that the only thing more scarred than the plank floors and tabletops were the scattering of customers busy burying memories in beer. Nadine was fervently insisting this night’s memories were worth saving, while she squinted at her cell phone, angling it just so and punching buttons.

“I swanee, Arie, you never smile. This is your party, honey.” Her tone had more force when she added, “Look happy.”

I pushed my lips into my best imitation of joy, somewhat confidant that the new cell phone was more technology than Nadine could master. At least the humiliation of this night would only live in the minds of those present.

And despite all the fuss about a party, and the exhaustion that lingered after the drive cross-country with Nadine and Uncle Eddie, I was with my dad again. We’d have the summer together before I had to start at my new job. I had three offers that didn’t involve a move to India (bio-med engineers are in big demand even in hard times). It would be good to chat with him about the options while we played in the surf and took long father-daughter strolls down the beach. At that thought, a soft glow warmed me from the inside and my smile turned genuine.

A battered cowboy hat covered his curly hair and stubble from a three-day growth of beard rounded out his “rustic” look. He looked happy up on the stage with his ragged collection of misfit musicians. That was all that mattered. Happy was a description that rarely applied to my dad, and when it did, it was while he was lost in his music.

His newest wife, Willa, looked happy too. Happy was a term that didn’t apply to new wives for long either.

Nadine’s lips pursed in a way that made the thick coat of red lipstick crack. Her camera lens seemed to be tracking something over my shoulder. I risked a quick glance and my heart stalled, my stomach sinking as fast as a cowboy tossed from his saddle. A guy was walking toward the bar with a lazy half-stroll/half-limp gait-- a guy complete with cowboy hat and boots and no ring on that left hand, and the only guy in the place that was under the age of fifty. I had been the target of Nadine’s matchmaking efforts often enough to know where her mind was headed. I wondered how long I could get away with hiding out in the ladies’ room.

I was not into cowboys, but Nadine adored anything western. The décor at her house would have done a lot to liven up the western atmosphere in the bar, especially her branding iron collection.

I was particularly wary of a guy that would walk around New Jersey dressed like he was ready to ride the range. That would only endear him to Nadine. He had at least ten years on me too -- which I noticed when he turned, caught me looking, and sent me a crooked smile.

I whipped back around to stare down Nadine. “Don’t even think about it.”

She flipped her camera shut, dropped it in her purse, and slid into a chair next to Eddie. She patted her perm with one hand even as she said, “He’s got his eye on you, Arie.”

I was the only woman in the bar who wasn’t at least a decade older than him, including two waitresses from the Dale Evans’ era, complete with red and white-fringed western skirts. It wouldn’t have been polite to point that out, so I bit into a slice of pizza that had gone cold and chased it with warm beer.

Lucky me, the band took a break at that point and Dad’s arrival took everyone’s attention. He kissed the top of my head and settled beside me. “Arie girl, come play the next set with us.”

I shook my head. Playing at family reunions and such was one thing, playing in front of strangers made me sweat and throw up.

Nadine rescued me. Sort of. “She’s going to be dancing the next set with that nice looking cowboy over there.”

Of course, everyone had to turn and look in the direction Nadine nodded. Of course, they weren’t casual about it:  Eddie glared; Dad inspected him like he was a snake and possibly venomous; Willa gave him an appreciative head-to-toe study and smoothed her long blond hair. I slid a little lower in my chair and ate more pizza, hoping I looked as unappealing as the meal tasted.

Fortunately, the Jersey Shore cowboy didn’t fly with Dad. He looked at me and shook his head. “When the pickings are this slim, maybe it’s best not to pick.”

Nadine wasn’t about to let the chance pass me by. “It’s her graduation party. She should be dancing and having a good time.”

I don’t even like to dance, but I didn’t want to get between them in an argument. Eddie folded his arms over his chest, prepared to watch Nadine and Dad go at it.

“Your Daddy and I got you a nice present, Arie,” Willa said, “Show her Nick.”
Willa didn’t know Dad and Nadine well enough to realize that diversion never diverted them from combat for more than a minute or two. But Nadine was curious so she let it go.

With a wave of his hand and a promising smile, Dad plucked a packet from the inside pocket of his jacket. I recognized the logo and colors of a Greyhound ticket envelope.

He was sending me away again and I hadn’t even had time to unpack.

Imagine you have this dream, and it’s been getting you through the last year. Maybe it has been getting you through your whole life. It’s what you think about when you wait for a bus, stare out a window, or when you’re standing in line at the grocery store. Imagine you’d written it down on paper, copied it out it beautiful calligraphy. Then imagine someone’s idea of a present to you is to crumple it up in a ball and pitch it in a trash basket.

That’s what this felt like. And it felt like that crumpled dream was wedged in my throat when he laid the envelope on the table, tapped the greyhound with one finger and slid it toward me.

“We got you an adventure, Arie. You can go anywhere you want to go for the whole summer.”

I tried to clear my throat and had to take another swallow of beer. It was like soapsuds and I grimaced, focusing on the bitter taste to keep my disappointment from leaking out. Then I smiled. Nadine was wrong when she said I never smiled. I smile a lot; it just doesn’t mean the same thing it does when other people smile.

***

Going Greyhound for the Summer

Creative Commons Search cfarivar on Flickr

Today is the launch day for my road trip novel, Greyhound Summer. You'll be able to read it right here on my blog as segments are moblogged by the main character, Arie Moon.

Arie should be posting her first blog at some point this evening. She hopes to meet lots of people and make new friends on this summer trip, so feel free to talk to her in the comments of her posts or email her. She uses gmail. The user is arieandmatilda.

How to Read the New Novel

J.C. Hutchins gives us a look at the future of the novel and a quick lesson in how to read it.



Check out the pics of fellow new reading adventurers at his live blog of release day: http://jchutchins.net/site/2009/06/09/liveblog-personal-effects-dark-art-all-day-online-launch-party/

A History Making Week for Novels

Don't hold your breath waiting for the mainstream publishing world to notice, but there are some great and innovative books being released this week.

First up is Kelly Jamieson's, Worth Waiting For.

It was worth waiting for but you don't have to wait any longer. She's got a contest going on her blog to win a free copy.

Tomorrow is the release date for Personal Effects: Dark Art. This is another one we've been waiting for, a wonderful immersive fiction novel that brings you online after you've finished the book to discover more of the story. You can read more about it in this article at Suicide Girls.

On Wednesday, my novel, Greyhound Summer goes live - a story told by moblogging character, Arie Moon, as she sets off across country on a Greyhound Discover Pass. It's a summer of love, adventure, and great reading so don't miss out. Jump in and join the fun.

Virtual Summer Road Trip

When I was a teenager I criss-crossed the country on a Greyhound Discover pass one summer. I traveled with an old boyscout backpack and my guitar. There's nothing quite like a road trip for putting you in touch with real people and the real beauty of this country.

I thought this summer I would send a character on the road and let her blog the trip as she travels the country on a Greyhound Discover Pass. I want to experiment with storytelling through all the social media tools: moblogging, Twitter, Flickr, You Tube, Google maps, and hopefully even some interactive blogging if there are any fellow road-trippers out there.

I did a little rearranging here on the blog to make it easier to read longer posts. I'm assuming Arie will have a lot to say. She hits the road this week so keep one eye on the blog and the other on the road. If you meet her in your travels this summer let me know here in comments.

Here's a traveling song to get us in the mood.

John Prine - Clay Pigeons