This article originally appeared in the Dreaming in Ink newsletter.
I'm going to keep things brief for a
couple of reasons. First, I am Marla's victim for the monthly
interview and the last thing anyone really needs in this newsletter
is more of my special brand of bullshit. Go read that to get some
insights into my odiferous inner self.
Also, I don't have much to say when it
comes to writing this month, because I didn't get much time to do any
of it. Life kinda exploded on me this month. Not in a completely
bad way, mind. Not all bad anyway. Just a very time-consuming way.
But I found something weird in my
travels. And I want to talk about it. So I'm gonna.
There's this strange little place off
Interstate 80 in Iowa. The word 'shrine' comes to mind, although
most shrines don't have toilets as their primary feature. There is
a rest area in Iowa dedicated to the art of writing. I'm not sure
what, if anything it means. It's probably just one of those weird
little relics one finds on the road.
I'm on the road all the time, so I know
my rest stops. I know them well. I've bolted into most of them with
a special kind of urgency. That's what they are for. They exist so
that the traveler may rapidly discharge the extra cup of coffee in a
dignified, sanitary and ,this is the important bit, a
not-peeing-on-a-bush-in-front-of-God-and-everyone kind of way.
Iowa takes their public restrooms a
step farther. Their rest areas have themes. There's one near Des
Moine that is a salute to wind power. There's another by Ames in
honor of the Iowan farmer.
And there's one near Iowa city for the
writers.
The first thing I noticed was the word
'Iowa' written in huge, black script on the front of a building
around the size of a small house. Well that and the giant sculpture
of a pen out front. In retrospect it's hard to figure out how I was
able to pass by so many times and not know exactly what I was looking
at.
Inside there are digital scrolling
signs continuously displaying quotes from Iowan authors. There are
others cut into the enclosures around picnic tables. It is every
functional rest area you've ever seen... with a shout out to writers.
Vending machines and deep thoughts. Water fountains and fountain
pens.
I don't think I ever stopped there
before this month. There's just no reason to. I travel through Iowa
a lot. A LOT. Like two or three times a month sometimes. Like any
repetitive task, I have a rhythm. A routine. This was not part of
it.
So I don't know why I stopped in this
time. Maybe it was a little present from the Universe since this
month devastated my productivity. Or maybe it was the coffee.
Okay, is was definitely the coffee. Maybe a little bit of the
Universe. Coffee and the Universe working together. To make
writers. And a rest area in Iowa to honor them.
