So we went up to Lake Arrowhead for the night and R. drove and I reread my pages – this seemed like a good idea because no matter how awful the pages were I couldn’t escape. Traveling at 75 mph I couldn’t leap out of the car or create a traffic hazard by throwing 267 pages out the window. I just had to sit there, shut up, and read and edit my own stuff.
You know when babies and toddlers get hysterical and to calm them down their parents drive them around the neighborhood until they can sleep? Well, this was a grown-up writer's version of the same thing. I don't know if it was the change of scenery or the lulling effect of car travel, but my pages aren't so bad when I'm riding around in a car. R. says he'll just drive me up and down Pacific Coast Highway until I get the damn book finished.