I just finished a spontaneous road trip through East Texas, Arkansas and Louisiana. The first goal was to catch up with some family I don’t see enough of at all and that went well, if a bit quick. The other objective was to be immersed in the ArkLaTex Triangle and get cracking on some new writing, finish up lingering projects, and return home triumphant – and prolific.

After the visit I said my farewells and struck out into the late-winter, brownish expanse of dreary forests and marshes. Most of the roads I chose were two-lane death trails (more on this later) through small towns (or villages in Louisiana), many containing only 300 people or so.

The weather was nice, a little cheery and breezy for my taste, but I meandered through town after town searching for some inspiration. I eventually found myself in Hot Springs for the night. With its rich history, haunted reputation and unique architecture, I figured this would be the spark I needed. Upon checking into the somewhat-famous Arlington Hotel, I got settled in, set up, and had a drink or two, thinking This is finally it, here we go!

Nothing.

Not only was the hotel empty – of guests and ghosts alike – but so was my screen. I stared at the keyboard and the camera and the journals in distress for a while. Six hundred miles from home, nursing a sudden cold, and now I couldn’t get a word out. Fingers skittered over the keys, itching to press one. Even my shiny new voice recorder was feeling the neglect, red record light winking with derision at me on the table, daring me to press the circle and shout a profound and profane introduction to The Scariest Story Ever.

You’re trying too hard, I thought.

I agreed and poured another before sleeping for damn near ten hours.

This is how the rest of the trip went. I walked the streets and, between explosive sneezes, snapped a few photographs of wax figures and bath houses before checking out and starting the drive back. I found a different route, and made my way through Northern Louisiana (on fumes for one very unnerving stretch). Each near-miss with a logging truck creeping out of the oncoming lane made me more impatient to admit defeat and power my way home. I dutifully took pictures of passing trees and towns and even visited the site of another short story, garnering puzzled stares as I photographed their coroner’s building. I’d been sneezing so long, I probably looked like I was crying while I did it, too.

Ten hours after checking out that morning, and in complete disappointment over the lack of accomplishments on the writing side, the last few days came back in a flood.

If I had spent any time actually writing on this quick trip, I’d be in that room still and I might have missed the old lady in Louisiana who overcharged me for gas and replied to every question with a slow, acrimonious ‘Uh-huh,’ or the narrow lanes near there with tree branches hanging over the road like they were about to pluck a motorist from his car when nobody else might see it happen. This, of course, might be one explanation for the memorial crosses and large burn marks every few hundred yards (or less) for an unbelievably long stretch through the woods.

I definitely would have avoided having to turn and walk the other way as a surly looking dude was let out of a police car in an empty parking garage behind the buildings and made his way over, with no complaint from the cop releasing him. I’m sure he may have just wanted to chat about architecture, but I wasn’t going to hang around and find out. Don’t ask what I was doing walking around behind the buildings, it was… writer stuff.

I didn’t even plan to discuss the Nacho Witch, or the abandoned and weed-choked police cars beside the road in a town (corp?) that looked as dead as the roadkill smashed over fifteen feet of its blacktop.

So as I neared the Alamo City, anxious to see the kids and get some sleep, I realized I had a metric shit-ton of material that would be ready when I was.

It’s all going pretty smoothly now.