Tag Archives: traveling

Gypsy Writer Divorcee

As an author, I’m supposed to share my life with fans ’cause they want to know the person behind the creative genius 😉 Okay. Not a natural inclination for me to share, but here goes:

My first post as the GWD. Can I throw an A in there and make this GAWD!!! It only took me 28 years to get here, but hey, who gives a rat’s sash?
I’ve been divorced for eight years, so yeah, doing the math means I was married for twenty. Wow. I’m going to say that again: Wow.
How in the hell did that happen? I write about love as a secondary job, but holy wedding vows, love is some powerful shit. Not to mention blinding as f*&#.
I stayed with someone for twenty years and then left him. Gawd, writing that down hits home, you know? I stayed with someone for twenty years and then left him. How in the fanny pack did I even do that?
Well, I know how.
It reached a point where it was killing me to stay. Simple as that. Either I died emotionally and spiritually…you know, where you just give up? Where you just can’t even argue about shit anymore because what’s the point? Yeah. So that’s where I was when I decided to become a traveler.
It was either hit the road or hit the bottle, and I have juuuuust a smidge too much self respect for the latter (okay, brief aside. I hit the bottle in binges and chased it with a bit of Idon’tgiveableep. Aaaaanyway…). So, my first excursion was onto the internet, where I searched for a job in another state

The “real” face of S.C. Dane

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Found one. I’ll end the post here ’cause the job and the leaving deserve their own air time. Come on back if you can stand to listen to one more author blather on about her personal life and how she came to write books.
Tata Titties–which I cut off, but that’s another post–for now 🙂

~S.C. Dane

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“How To Throw Away A Perfectly Good Husband” #divorce #publishing #nomadic lifestyle

How To Throw Away A Perfectly Good Husband

I thought the title was going to be an introduction to this blog. Turns out—no. As I put my fingertips to the keys, I’m not sure what’s going to sprinkle across the page. I already wrote one blog on this topic, shared with you some personal stuff about being a paranormal romance novelist, a nomad, and a divorcee.

    For those of you who aren’t detectives: I didn’t post it. Instead, I got hit by my techie-gremlin again. What’s a techie-gremlin, you wonder? A snag in my computer experience that behaves like a sentient being. You think my toast has fallen peanut butter side down, don’t you? Probably it has, but there’s no denying the existence of this something. It’s like Jiminy Cricket hovering over my shoulder, only he has a magic wand to halt the internet. Every time I’ve tried to post something that later bit me on the ass, my techie-gremlin tried to interfere.

    He popped in again with the last post I wanted to publish about throwing away a perfectly good husband. I was having no problems navigating, playing, or adjusting my blog until I hit “publish.” I tried it several times, had success with other functions, browsed around on the internet, and returned to re-post. Nada.

    So, given this has happened too many times to ignore, I sat back and wondered if I shouldn’t be airing detes about my marriage. Or, if it’s all right to blab, maybe I need to rephrase things. For our purposes this time, I’m only going to publish the stuff I wrote about writing. So, release your breath, here it is:

… (this follows what the techie-gremlin didn’t want me to share.)So, I stepped off my porch. And I stepped. Until the individual steps became a walk, one which got increasingly easier as I gained momentum, as I felt the titillation of freedom only the open road can give.

Of course, the first book I ever wrote told so much about myself it was practically a personality profile. Living vicariously through my characters? Hell, yes. I did a lot of running and exploring out on the Great Heath of my home town, which is where my first novel began. Did I hope to be thrown a lifeline in the form a sexy wolf-man? Oh, my, who wouldn’t? The people who knew me and read the book, Luna: Book One of The Luna Chronicle, wondered if the reason I ran on the heath everyday was because I did have a wolf-man out there.

They weren’t far off in their suspicions. Writing the book was an adventure in escapism, so every time I headed out to the bog, Luna and her supporting characters came with me. As I ventured through the wind-stunted forests like a white-tailed deer, events in the storyline unfolded. By the time my lungs were wheezing, I was ready to return to the box of my house and sketch my imagined world to life: once written upon the page, Luna-Beth’s world became real.

Little did I know then that Beth’s leaving everything behind to follow her wolf-man would presage my own experience (minus the wolf-man, boo-hiss!). Like my title character, I could no longer stay in a world where I just didn’t fit.

My husband—bless his understanding heart for a thousand years to come—stayed behind while I traipsed forward, armed only with my intuition, a bit of courage, and raw faith that readers would love my characters as much as I do.

    Later, I’ll try again to share the madness behind my motivation. Here’s hoping I can. In the meantime, keep in mind that the title for this blog is more appropriate than the dress code at a Catholic school. I really did throw away a perfectly good husband when I set out to discover more of the world and my place in it. Maybe you’ve done the same. If so, I’d love to hear from you. Who knows, maybe a little dialogue will lull Jiminy Cricket and his magic wand to sleep. Winks!

~S.C. Dane

#Road-trekking and Making One’s Home

I’ve been in Indiana for a month and half, having traveled here from Connecticut, and before that Maine. It has taken me a year and a half to get to this Midwestern state from my original starting point: Jonesport, Maine. I might as well have rocketed to the moon, it’s that different. First, my launching pad is coastal. Jonesport sits with her toes in the ocean, and most of her residents earn their livings from the bounty that ocean provides. My first re-fueling station on my travels was North Stonington, CT, which happens to sit mighty close to the historically famous Mystic Seaport.

I didn’t stray far from the scent of briny fog. Plus, I was still in New England, where Yankee sarcasm and ingenuity still thrive hale and strong.

Third stop on my road trek? A moonscape compared to the craggy coast and its spiking spruce trees. Indiana is flat in comparison, with acres upon acres of corn and soybeans. As I drove with one eye on the pavement stretching endlessly before me, and the other scanning the scenery, I developed a queer sensation in my gut. Yes, the sky stretched marvelously above me. Which wasn’t unusual. I’ve been on the ocean with no land in sight.

Land was the difference here. I was traveling across solid ground, not fathoms of an alien world beneath my keel.

Oh, and what a strange land it was compared to what I’m used to! With all that farmland flattened out on either side of me as I drove along, I delved deeper into that hollowness that was my gut. The deduction? All this agriculture without an animal in sight was unsettling. What my farming friends in New England would give for a quarter of the wide open acreage! Think of the many types of vegetables they could plant. They could feed their small collection of livestock right from what they yielded on the farm. Goats, pigs, cows—nothing would go hungry, no pastures chewed down to the roots. Imagine the grazing rotations!

Alas, my Maine heart was saddened by the lack of such diversity. Corn and soybeans. Corn and soybeans. Corn and soybeans.

Not only is the land different, but so, too, are the homes. Granted, I’m generalizing here, but it seems I see more squat houses here in Indiana. Neither do many of the homes have large windows through which to enjoy the view. My suspicions? Tornadoes. Those sovereign entities of hell that would lay waste to the glass walled, high-reaching homes of the northeast.

You wonder then, what with my skin draped ’round my bones without their heart, why I’ve decided to stay in Indiana for a bit?

Frankly, at first, I wondered the same thing. Why didn’t I tuck tail and run back from whence I came?

Well, I’m not big on judging first impressions. I like to give things a little time for their true threads of gold to shine. Staying on in Indiana has achieved what I was hoping it would. With the dust settled from my move and the pace at the farm having grown into routine, I’m gleaning the gems from my daily living. The horses are now familiar, our relationships forming through daily interactions. My early morning hikes to the barn are resplendent with glittering stars in a wide, pre-dawn sky.

It’s the folks here, too, who have allowed me to coax my battered heart back out into the sunlight. A strange landscape this may be, but the people, as they are in New England, are the salt of the earth. They are not alien, but kind and generous. From what I’ve seen so far, they work damn hard for what they have, and are quick to stick out a hand to help a neighbor. Just like the folks I left back home.

So, here I’ll nest for the time being, writing novels and shoveling horse manure, until my longing to travel tickles my feet again.

~S.C. Dane

#Bucking Horses and Rambunctious Foals

Well everyone, another week has passed and I have no clue where the time went! As I’ve lamented, I’m busier than a mouth at a pie eating contest.

I’m enjoying the new job working with the horses. Sometimes, though, I’ve been so busy I’ve forgotten to step back and take a look at the view. I’m not talking the landscape here, either, unless you count a herd of horses charging through a field. Which is what I remembered to enjoy today as I was calling in the mares with their foals.

I heard them first, rumbling across the earth as they crested a hill to charge toward the barn. I stood back as they galloped by me, hooves kicking up dirt clods and toplines stretched flat as they raced each other. Occasionally, a mare or foal would buck and hop, or kick up their heels and toss their heads. Happy horses, these.

We also put all of the yearlings together in a great spread of a pasture where they could run and establish the pecking order without any of them getting trapped, or seriously hurt because of it. Again, it was a moment I stopped to enjoy. This age is really when you begin to see the potential growing in these fine creatures. Their athleticism gained within one year is astounding. Until you watch the four year olds. Then, by glory, you see a magnificent horse with chutzpah!

But I’ve skipped a couple of growing years in between! Needless to say, there is beauty in every age. Even the older broodmares bear a wisdom and a kindness that make them a true pleasure to work around. I never forget to take a few moments to enjoy these women. While I’m picking stalls, I offer to scratch an itchy spot here, or caress a tender muzzle there.

All these moments I’ve described are what make the stall cleaning worth it. Just the smell of the barns, or the soft nickers at feeding times are enough to keep me enjoying my work, no matter how physically tired I am at the end of the day. I think it’s why I can still write, even though my body feels like all it wants to do is stand under a hot shower to slough away the dust and manure streaks. Which is fine, since all I need to ask of it by then is to rat-a-tat my fingers across a keyboard.

But it’s my brain and spirit which are still surging strong, despite the wear and tear of a busy day. Am I getting as much time as I crave to write? Of course not. There are only twenty-four hours in a day, and I can’t do everything I want. But living and working with a large herd of horses isn’t a shabby way to spend one’s life. It’s all about doing what we love and finding the balance that works for us. Someday, there will be a reversal. I won’t have the strength and stamina to do what I’m doing now.

I know this, which is why I’m enjoying my trek across our beautiful country while I have the energy to juggle all the flaming pins I’m holding. Will I get burned? Perhaps. But where would be the breathtaking moments if I didn’t chance it?

~S.C. Dane

#Roadtrekking to the Mid-West

#Roadtrekking to the Mid-West

Which explains why my post is a little tardy. I’m on the move. Actually, I’ve finally landed after driving for two days, but there are a lot of details and ducks to get in their rows. Internet service being the first biggie. I didn’t have it for almost a week, and couldn’t blog until I got it.
Fine by me. I had a lot to do once I parked my Roadtrek van for a permanent rest. Moving into a new home is never easy, and I’m doing it on my own. My traveling pal SalGal isn’t much help, either. Sure, she’s great on the road, but do you think I could get her to lift a paw and lug the belongings? Do you suppose she’d help me clean the new place before I unpacked? Uh-uh. No can do, she says. Sal’s tired from watching me drive. The passing scenery exhausted her.
What was my response to her throwing in the towel? I shrugged, dipped a shoulder like a charging bull, and tackled my new living quarters. Cobwebs and other peoples’ dirt: Beware! I had a mission, and would get myself settled before starting the new job if it killed me. Or forced me to skip meals.
Got it done, too. The place looks as good as it can, and with my own belongings arranged around the house, it’s feeling home-y. And ready for me to come home from a hard day on the farm to write.
So, you wonder, where am I? Where did I road trek to exactly?
Answer: Indiana.
What fun! You say? Or, are you wearing a perplexed expression like most everyone else I’ve told about my move. Indiana? What the heck is in Indiana?
My new job, for starters. Yeah, it was nearly one thousand miles away, but that was the point. I’m road-trekking. Eventually, I’ll work my way clear across this beautiful country. I’m not independently wealthy, which means I take on horse-y jobs to pay for my journey. And I write.
Despite the blank expressions from Easterners, Indiana is going to be a cool place to conjure my next novel. The wide open space reminds me the sky is the limit. I can do everything I’ve set my heart on doing. Will it be hard? Heck, yeah. I’m working full time on a farm. At the end of a day, I’m tired.
But it’s a gorgeous farm with gorgeous horses. And lots of countryside around me on every side so I don’t freak out. Cities wig me out and wear me down without feeding my spirit. So the remoteness of the farm, and the proximity to the animals and the earth are like blood for my body—necessary.
The writing will come easy. Do I wish I already made enough to finance a switch-aroo, where I could write all day and work the earth part-time instead of it being the other way around? Sure, I do. I’m just not there yet. I’m paying my dues. Running the gauntlet.
Someday. Someday, I won’t be the starving artist. Someday I can devote my attention to my readers and the stories they want. For now though, I’m enjoying the ride. Not only am I meeting wonderful people through my writing, but I’m meeting beautiful people everywhere I’m traveling. For those cynics who think the world is going to hell?
Maybe it is. But I’m discovering that in those small towns, and even in the big ones, or in the most unlikeliest of places, I’m running into good people.
So, my road-trekking has reaped some unseen rewards. I didn’t know when I started my walkabout what path my life would take. Has it been hard at times? Of course. But not so difficult I’m cowed by the unknown that lies ahead of me.
I have all the people I’ve met, in person and virtually, to thank for my courage to press onward with my dreams. I’ll keep shoveling manure, scraping the dirt from under my fingernails, and writing till my tired eyelids flutter shut.
Because my spirit is sated and electrically alive.
~S.C. Dane