I've dreamed of being a writer for most of my life. I wrote my first story, "The Night of the Bats," in the fourth grade. Followed that up with a screenplay for an episode of the Daniel Boone TV series. By junior high school I was actually submitting stories, and when an editor from Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction magazine sent me a hand-written rejection, I was hooked. The dream had taken hold of me down in my belly and it wasn't letting go.
With the dream of writing came other dreams. Sub-dreams, perhaps. Meta dreams. In high school, I admit, I dreamed of a guest appearance on The Tonight Show, of a writing studio in Paris, of a spot on the New York Times bestseller list. Most of these meta dreams have faded over the years (well, maybe not the NYT one, entirely), but one dream has stuck with me. A dream that I hope to someday realize.
It's an old dream. Older than Paris, older than The Tonight Show. At least as old as the New York Times bestseller list. It's a dream I call The Frito Truck.
Here's how it works.
I buy one of those panel trucks that delivers tasty snacks to grocery stores. And I fix up the interior as a writing den. Inside the Frito truck!
Take a moment with me to think about that. To savor it.
There'll be a desk and a couple of comfortable chairs (in case someone stops by). I'll have bookcases for reference materials and other books I want to have on hand. Dark wood and soft carpeting. One wall is tricked out to lift up, exposing a bank of windows so I can have a view while I write. Meanwhile, on the exterior, it looks like a delivery truck, right down to the Frito-Lay logo painted on the sides.
In my Frito Truck, I can drive around until I find a good place to stop, open the windows and do some writing. But the rest of the time, I'm a "truck driver." In fact, maybe I'd even carry around a case of snacks and maybe give them away, like I was an extra nice potato chip delivery guy instead of an undercover writer. Bwa-ha-ha. And when people ask me about it, I'll say, "Well, I'm a writer, but someday I dream of delivering salty snacks to the people." (Fist held high!)
Surely I'm not the only one with a crazy dream. So tell me yours. C'mon. Let's hear it...
12 comments:
Actually, what I was thinking while reading this (besides, Bill's a half bubble off plumb) is that Rupert Gint, who plays Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter novels, has an ice cream truck, complete with ice cream. During the interview they asked Emma Watson (Hermione) about it and she laughed and said, "Yeah, it's true, and you'd just have to know Rupert to understand it. And he does drive it around and sell or give away ice cream, too."
Perhaps Rupert and I are twins, separated at birth. And in time and space. Wait. Maybe I'm his father.
"I'm your father, Lu--,er Rupert."
"Noooooo---" [falls down a science-fiction well]
Bill~
I apologize for this, I really do. But the only thing I can think of when I think of Fritos is toenails. Someone sent this link to me and I haven't touched them since....
http://www.weirdthings.org.uk/index.php?s=toenails
Now I'm traumatized all over again...
Mark2
My dream was similar, but I was on a boat doing the same thing, port to port, fishing and writing. Unfortunately, handing out day old mackeral is not as practical as chips.
-rick bylina
http://muse-needed.blogspot.com/
Well, Mark2, I don't actually eat Fritos myself. Remember, Frito-Lay offers a wide array of salty snacks. Most of which I don't eat either.
What does it say about me that this is probably my favorite Inkspot post to date? Truly! Your head may be a scary place, Bill, but I feel welcome there. :<0
From childhood through teen years, my dream of a place to write was a camping trailer--not a cabin, please note--in a wooded campground--not a forest--near a river I could canoe on, a pool I could swim in, lukewarm camp showers I could rush through, sing-alongs I could belt off-key in, campfires I could be hypnotized by..... Yup, there was a definite campground theme to the whole thing. I even spent a lot of time imagining how I would write there, all alone but not frozen, in winter.
Somewhere around age 30, I swore off camping. Probably about the same time I discovered room service. Now my dream is to write in an airy little office overlooking water or hills or a garden with a big dog at my feet to remind me when it's time to take a break. A good man is in this picture, too. He's not at my feet, but he's there somewhere....reminding me that I could be camping.
I didn’t dream so much of a place to write as an event. I always imagined someone calling me on the phone while I was working away on my latest masterpiece. I would hear my wife answer the call and say, “I’m sorry but I can’t disturb him right now, he’s writing.” The reality is that when I’m writing and the phone rings, my wife usually says, “Can you get that?” :-)
BTW, I love Fritos, especially the big, thick ones that don’t brake when you scoop refried bean dip. Let’s eat!
Bill, your mind is a fascinating place! My dream - I'm most creative outside, so I'd want a "room" without walls where the breeze was always blowing but my papers didn't take off in a zillion directions, where the weather was always whatever I wanted it to be. Oh, a lake view on one side, forest on the other.
Bill, just a suggestion, but you might want to also keep several copies of Lost Dog with you in that trailer to prove to the police that that's what you're really doing as you lurk about...
As for dream spots, I really do feel like I already have one carved out in the bucolic country with lots of nature nearby, indoor plumbing (that's for you, Nina) and dogs. I just wish I was there more often. So I guess my dream writing place is more about time than place.
I love it. I'm going to have an ice cream truck. I can outfit half of the inside as a writer's den and keep the other half stocked with ice cream. This way, I can force the kids' mothers to buy my books while they're paying for Astropops and Creamsicles.
What a great post!!! Thanks, Bill, for reminding me of my dream place. I needed that today.
I've always pictured myself several months a year in a darling cottage in either England, France or Italy. Near enough to take a train into the city, but still in a rural charming place with streams, trees, nature and wonderful local folks. I'd walk to the local market for my daily fresh food, spend as much time reading as I do writing, and not care a freaking you-know-what about what time it is. I may not even allow a clock in place.
But I wouldn't want to be there year-round, just a few months a year.
Ah, 'tis good to dream. I would write in everyone's dream space too!
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