It occurred to me that the writing world mirrors the highway in more ways than I had imagined. For this example, simply picture your highway drives and I’m sure you’ll begin to follow along.

To have a highway you need a path from point A to point B—with several stops in between. To simplify the highway as a one-way path is to disregard all other possibilities. The highway serves a purpose to the drivers who traverse it. In my case, the highway would not only bring me to my destination, but the return path would bring me back home again. Not all journeys follow suit. Sometimes I stop short of previous destinations, while other times I choose a different route. Another highway.

So how does this relate at all to writing? Consider the travelers on the road. They must all operate a vehicle of some kind, a mode of transporting themselves to their destination, wherever that might be. This vehicle is in some way representative of their status. Families require a larger vehicle with more seating capabilities; commercial transport vehicles address the shipping needs and costs of their respective companies by selecting semis; my Forester is All Wheel Drive.

Okay, admittedly the Forester I own serves more purposes to me. The fact remains that cars show status. That glitzy sports car, worth three times my annual salary, passing me in the left lane exemplifies a higher financial status. At the same time, that large rear-end and the sloped, witch-nose bonnet aren’t exactly my style. My approach requires more speed, a subtler presence, and a more reliable vehicle.

Authors maintain an image as well. The way in which writers present themselves to the public—be it social media, a website, or any other method of promotion—exemplifies their style, their character, and what their values are. Experienced writers are like those in the Mercedes Benz SUVs, the Porsche 911 Turbos, and the BMW M5s. Their author platform has evolved to a point where expertise sets them apart. Much like the marques they own, there is now a legacy and many years’ worth of knowledge that characterizes their presence.

Writers like me, who own “sensible” cars, haven’t quite made it that far—yet. We’re the ones who spend part of our income on improving our rides, on bettering ourselves. We have to keep an eye on the gas gauge and the bank account, stay within the rules of the road, and wait for our chance to move up to that senior position.

But when we get that chance, you better believe we dart over to the left lane and peg that pedal!

Highway lanes lanes are an expression of status as well. They might be considered in terms of the pressures writers face daily. Known as the “hammer lane,” the left lane usually holds drivers that push the limits of lawful speed on the way to their destination. They presumably have the know-how to negotiate the roadblocks this lane offers. Sure of their exit, they are able to navigate across tides of traffic to come to their destination, faster than the rest.

A foreign-made sedan darts across my lane to speed by the stand-still traffic. Braking, I reach the mass of cars slowing down. I flick my gaze towards the rear-view mirror but other cars have seen the delay and are taking suitable measures. As I come closer to those in front of me, I make out the shapes of grass piles littering the middle and right-most lanes. None are bigger than the average Golden Retriever, but to the unsuspecting motorist, they could spell disaster.

Quickly identifying the left lane as my best option, I jog over. No sod piles block the path here. My Forester enjoys the downward travel of my right foot as we accelerate to the limit once more. The speedometer reads 75 miles per hour for a few more minutes before we must slow down once again. This time, it’s a traffic jam.

Because sometimes in life, you’ve got to submit to the grind. There’s no avoiding it.

Above, a far-off plane glides through the jet stream.

Someday, I whisper to myself. Someday.

Rebecca Henderson holds a Master’s in German and a Bachelor’s in Creative Writing. Best expressing herself through the written word, she enjoys the smell of burning rubber and can recite the ABC’s of the automotive world upon command. Rebecca hopes to shift your world perspective through her words, because looking out the same window every day hardly makes for an interesting life.

The post Writers and Highways appeared first on Newfound.

From the churchyard, above the surrounding brick wall, I can see a charity shop. Crossing the road to look in the window, I can see a display of books and old china plates. The books are “Marilyn: A Life In Pictures,” a John McEnroe autobiography and an encyclopaedia of Elvis shows. The old china plates are covered in pictures of pheasants.

Walking the wrong way down the one-way street, I pass two butchers, an optician, a bank and the bus stop where people wait at all times of the day, regardless of the schedule. If it’s raining, they wait under the archway entrance of the bakery and are often tempted to go inside by the smell of Portuguese custard tarts. Continuing on through the square I have to move out of the way of two schoolchildren and their mother. The mother says, “Hurry up, I’m absolutely soaked.” It’s starting to rain.

The daughter says, “You’re soaked?”

And the son says, “I’ve been waiting outside for you to pick me up. I’m soaked.”

“Oh shut up. I’m cold, too,” is the final word from the mother.

As I leave the square I see a sign on the metal fence around the square that reads, Dale Bublé, Michael Bublé tribute act – ‘You won’t get better than Dale!’

*

It is easy to mock the place where I grew up. I was born in Santiago, educated on the outskirts of London, and I’ve lived in New York. It’s hard to kick the habit of damning the countryside village for its cross-eyed people, its unpleasant smells and the historically-supported rumors of incest and bestiality.

Attleborough can seem like a one-horse town compared to the other locations I’ve mentioned. And if you’re a fan of horses, or, like me, arrogantly think that you deserve to be surrounded by hordes of like-minded horses who want to pay you to produce and perform your creative work, then a one-horse town can too easily be the butt of jokes muttered under your breath as you watch local families walk away from the town square.

*

Crossing the road on the south side of the square is like playing a game of chicken. Cars are eager to swing around the diner on the corner and into the path of pedestrians leaving the square. Not today though. I cross safely.

In front of me is a frame shop; I’ve only ever seen the owners inside. Anyone who wanted anything framed in this town has long since achieved that aim. Outside the diner next door sits a man dressed like a cowboy, complete with hat, boots and bolo tie and another man perpetually on a motorized mobility scooter. But that doesn’t hinder him. He has learned to lean sideways toward his table to eat his full English breakfast.

I have to navigate more than two crossings to get to where I want to go, because the one-way system meets with a double-lane road and creates an island. I walk to the island, where there is a war memorial covered in names of local people not lucky enough to have lived such a humdrum life.

Joining the circular route around the one-way system again, I have to stop in the road inches away from an oncoming car because someone who is incredibly overweight is talking to a person with a wheeled-basket full of bottles and frozen meat. The cars are too close for comfort, and as I attempt to circumnavigate the couple who are cheerily talking about a mutual friend, perhaps relative, who’s getting closer to death every day, I catch a glimpse of the local newspaper on top of the shopping.

“Lack of fame is no barrier to Attleborough author”, it read. A picture of a purple-haired elderly lady perched behind a stack of her eight-volume autobiography accompanied it.

*

It’s a logical fallacy to think that the only way to be a productive and successful writer is to live in the city, or to live among famous people. Jennifer Meakin, the autobiography writer, does not prove that point, however, or embody it, because her writing is not successful in monetary or publicity terms. She isn’t the type of writer I want to be and doesn’t have the career that I would be satisfied with. But what she has done is taken a small slice of life and attempted to show it to the wider world. The humble aim of every writer, surely?

My point isn’t to chuck stones at our heroic Jennifer, or to champion the country bumpkin, saying that everyone lives a valuable life or that creativity can pop up in the most unexpected places. That’s certainly no more true just because one old lady decided to write about her life in the quiet corner of the English countryside.

Just because a place might seem less than ideal for an ambitious writer (quiet when I want loud, slow when I want fast), does not mean that I can’t write a couple of pages about it and allow someone on the other side of the world to see a little more of this side. If only once a reader in Austin, Texas can see the words, Attleborough, Norfolk, UK, and think for a moment about the countryside vicar as he rushes back to church, then it seems as if bringing the world closer together is not as impossible as it might seem.

Josh King received his MFA from Adelphi University in New York, and now lives in the UK. He divides his time between writing fiction, drama and drawing comics.

The post A Place You’ve Never Heard Of: Attleborough, Norfolk, UK appeared first on Newfound.

I’m an early riser and like to read novels or poetry, or do my own writing, between 6 and 8 a.m. If I start my day with words, I can let myself get swept away by full-time work, doing the dishes, keeping my clothing clean-but-probably-still-wrinkly, crafting, friends, long walks, and whatever else a day might throw at me.

Breaking a routine can be healthy (travel). It can also make me frantic (a big life change).

There’s nothing like a move between apartments over a rainy spring weekend to make you confront the life you’ve built so far. Having to account for and physically carry out all my worldly possessions made me take stock of my life over the past lease (one year in this case). The stuff I’ve accumulated told me what my routines have added up to so far.

Things I don’t have much of, and don’t value all that much: jewelry, designer anything, clothing that’s not practical, furniture? (I just bought a bed).

Things I have a lot of, and clearly value: Books (HEAVY! WHY?), notebooks, pens, stationary, postcards, photographs, loose tea, ingredients to cook with, mugs, warm blankets, coffee accouterments.

I saw that I’ve tried to build a life that frees me up to go out and explore the world. When I return, I come home to coffee and books and a warm bed.

I also had to pack up two novels I began writing but never finished, Spanish flashcards I haven’t practiced with in a year, and a failed attempt at quilting-by-hand. It made me ask, What have I let fall by the wayside? The interruption of a move makes me reexamine my time and priorities.

A new lease begins! A new routine to cultivate! I vowed to be more dedicated, to squander less time, to finish what I started.

And yet, waiting for a bed delivery, I was able to pick up and be absorbed by a novel. I don’t want to become so rigid that I can’t find a free moment to try something new or unexpected. Those moments are part of the creative process, too.

Laura Eppinger graduated from Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA in 2008 with a degree in Journalism, and she’s been writing creatively ever since. She the blog editor here at Newfound Journal.

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