Dear Reader (including those of you who get this “news”letter through long protein strings),
I’m kind of on vacation, but as a co-founder of a startup, a self-employed writer, the father of a daughter some 4,000 miles away, and a man with frighteningly few hobbies, vacation is a hazy concept for me.
I often tell people, “Don’t mind me, I just want to watch you sleep.” They rarely take it well. But that’s not important right now. I also tell people that one of the great things about being a writer is I can do it from anywhere. I then add, one of the worst things about being a writer is I can do it from anywhere. In other words, my work is always with me.
Bill Buckley was a real master of on-the-road writing. I don’t mean in the Kerouac sense, but in the literal one. I’ve heard quite a few stories about how he could meet someone for drinks at the hotel bar while tapping out a column on his portable typewriter. I can’t have a conversation with someone while writing, unless of course “Th4 urst 97220 falange basset hound cytorrak” counts as writing. I need to concentrate a bit. But I have written more columns than I can count from the passenger seat of a car barreling across Montana, the parking lot or lobby of a hotel, or in a camping chair in the backyard of one of my Alaskan relatives.