“Can we drive out to Warner Springs this weekend? Some of the new book is taking place there and I want to get some pictures.”
If you heard someone say this to you, chances are you’d give them an odd look, reach for a phone, and begin calling men in white coats. I mean, I said those words and even I can’t help but fear that the speaker was off his meds.
Vicky? She just said, “Okay. Let’s go in the morning before it gets too hot.”
Vicky has reached a point, I believe, where being married to a writer almost feels normal. I mean, let’s say she remarried. And this person was a lawyer or a mailman or a mechanic – something NORMAL! I don’t know if she could handle it. There wouldn’t be nearly enough randomness for her system!
I’m reminded of a trip she and I took many years ago, possibly 2006, to Arizona. We drove along Route 66 to Kingman, Oatman, and so on, taking pictures as we went, because I was writing a book that took place along that stretch of road. Vicky humored me but, clearly, this was outside of her spectrum of normality. She didn’t quite get it and didn’t really want to get it. But, we did it. I wrote the book. There you go.
This time? She didn’t bat an eyelash.
One day, she’ll mention it to someone – or some other excursion – and they’ll give her the same looks that she once gave me.
Vicky, you’re welcome.