This is a guest post from my friend Ann deSaussure.
I started writing this post in a hotel room in Sparks, Nevada that I booked from the car after driving for ten hours straight. That was not the original plan (not by a long shot), but the campsite my boyfriend and I were eyeing was less than ideal and I dissolved into tears the moment I saw where we were supposed to sleep.
We’re in the process of moving from New York City to San Francisco and have been cooped up in the car together for the past seven days. There’s something inherently romantic and quiet about a road trip, and I had big dreams for this one. I saw us writing nightly together by the campfire, grabbing healthy snacks from the cooler I had so thoughtfully packed, and trading books back and forth as we raced through them. Instead, I haven’t written a word (until now), we don’t even own a cooler, and I’m on page 78 of my very first book.
One car, one highway, one boyfriend, one tent. It doesn’t get any simpler or slower than that. But I haven’t been able to slow down in the slightest.
