Early June. One hundred and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit down there. Road users call this the Glass Elevator due to the panoramic, see-for-miles descent. I like to think of it as Hades' sunnier, earthbound equivalent.
There is no better feeling than writing in the environment that you are conveying. Some would argue that simply observing a photo of a place could elicit equally imaginative escapades from the comfort of an office chair. But that's just work without sweat and I'm always wary of the short cuts in life.
The winds rose to gusts of 50mph by mid-afternoon. I packed the bike too high and paid dearly for it. I've never had to tack like a sailboat down a mountain side before. It's times like that I miss smoking.
Rush hour at a motel in Borrego Springs. Two hundred miles from Los Angeles' and Orange County's thirteen million souls. A heavy, humid fog rolls in and dresses the blue sky with a veil of pure white. Five thousand words are written but only two thousand are kept due to a sudden and decisive change in the plot. For better or worse, it is one of the most alluring parts of writing fiction. It's like riding through a hail storm - you marvel at the calamity exploding all around you with a sense of wonder, but it can also hurt like hell.