If I were a visual artist, I’d draw my book tour for you in a series of sketches: half-finished lines and curves full of electric highs and exhausted lows, the faces of old friends softened by nostalgia, the faces of new friends clarified by discovery.

My friend Angie and I became rock ‘n roll groupies for Lukas Nelson & The Promise of the Real.

Thursday night in Seattle, my friend Angie and I became rock ‘n roll groupies for Lukas Nelson & The Promise of the Real. Off my itinerary, I was headbanging and swaying like a smitten teenager, as Lukas and his band tore up The Showbox.

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This story ends at the Seattle talk show New Day Northwest, where I appeared right after musician Lukas Nelson, son of Willie Nelson, and a unique talent in his own right. I’d never heard him before and I was impressed:

Lukas Nelson is the son of Willie Nelson, and a unique talent in his own right.

How did I get here?

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I’m not doing this right. Every time I travel, that thought occurs to me at some point. I woke up yesterday morning at 7:30, and was ready to go by 9:00, which made me feel so grownup and responsible. Then I remembered I hadn’t yet checked the driving directions from Cheyenne, at the southern end of Wyoming, to Lovell, at the northern end. I regretted my lack of a GPS or smart phone — though I don’t know how I would have swung that, when I had neither enough cash nor credit for this trip until a couple of days before it started. Ah, panic: sometimes I rationalize that this is what adventure is made of.

It was a gorgeous second day of spring, but wow, I’d forgotten how windy Wyoming is!

I copied the directions off Google Maps, then decided to call the Fort Causeway Hostel for specifics, because I might arrive there at dusk. I thought I had the phone number, but I didn’t. So I checked the website, but the number wasn’t listed. Odd. I thought I made my reservation by phone – how did I do that? I gave up, and hoped to arrive before dusk. So, I left at 9:30. No problem. Google said the drive would take about six hours, 45 minutes. I had budgeted eight, including a lunch break, gas breaks, and a few stops for photos. Plenty of time.

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It was only two hours to Cheyenne, Wyoming - a drive I’ve made before. The first time was just over twenty years ago when I interviewed for a reporting job at a local TV station. I suppose it’s for the best that I never got that job, or I wouldn’t have become a reporter in Alaska. And if I hadn’t gone to Alaska, I wouldn’t have written a memoir about my life in Alaska (and my trek around the world). I passed through Cheyenne again seven years ago, on my way to Thompson Falls, Montana. I spent a month there, cleaning out my deceased grandmother-in-law’s house, and working on my memoir.

Cheyenne was the first stop on my four-week book tour for They Only Eat Their Husbands: A Memoir of Alaskan Love, World Travel and the Power of Running Away.

So, here I was again on a straight stretch of I-25, Rocky Mountains to the left, Great Plains to the right, cringing as my car threatened to rattle itself to pieces at “Speed Limit 75,” actual speed slightly more. Why? To reach the first stop on my four-week book tour for They Only Eat Their Husbands: A Memoir of Alaskan Love, World Travel and the Power of Running Away.

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The day is finally here, the first day of my four-week book tour, and as usual, despite my careful planning and preparation, I’m still running around at the last minute: paying that last bill, printing up those workshop handouts, changing my mind about today’s reading, oh, and breakfast… did I buy gas? Yet I’m happy, excited about going on another shoestring journey to celebrate the book about my shoestring journey: They Only Eat Their Husbands: A Memoir of Alaskan Love, World Travel, and the Power of Running Away. This time, I’m married, but I’m kindly leaving the husband at home - taking him on this whirlwind tour might actually devour him, and in my opinion that would be bad manners.

In about an hour, I’m jumping in my car and heading to Cheyenne, Wyoming, where I’m speaking at the Laramie County Library at 2:00 this afternoon. Get this: parents can send their kids to the Storytime Room for Ice Cream Sunday, then sneak over to the Cottonwood Room to hear me read about how I ended up in a love triangle with two alcoholics in Alaska, and then ran away to trek around the world alone. I even have pictures: of my world tour, not the love triangle… sorry.

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I’ve just finished teaching a Lighthouse Young Writers Workshop at a Denver middle school, and after just eight-weeks I’m already an addict. I’ve discovered that there is as much joy in helping others find their writing voice as there is in expressing my own. Yet I’ll confess that I used to fear middle-schoolers. “They’re all volition, and no control,” I’ve sometimes explained to friends.

There is as much joy in helping others find their writing voice as there is in expressing my own.

I remember middle school as perhaps the most terrifying time in my life: on my first day, a girl I’d never met tossed the contents of my purse around the gym, she laughed at the Kleenex my mom had stuffed inside, as my other personal odds and ends flew overhead from hand to hand. I wondered what power she had, and I lacked, that made a roomful of strangers decide to humiliate me.

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My decision to leave and travel around the world with a 13-year-old was not impulsive but directed. At the time, I hardly realized the impact on everyone who was involved with this journey. The gift of telling the story from my current perspective is interesting in that so much more of it is understood.

I truly expected this painting to fall apart by now, but it’s fine.

The date was September 10, 1997, and I will never forget the morning my husband dropped our youngest daughter and myself off at the bus stop on our way to JFK airport and the world. I had never traveled by myself or been out of the country more than stepping over the Canadian border one time. But when you know you have to do something, courage finds a place in your heart. We left with too much stuff and started a process of getting rid of things in Chile that lasted all the way to Thailand. I was traveling with a portable wooden easel and 20 pounds of oil paints. I didn’t realize when I left how hard it would be to find mineral spirits when I didn’t understand the language. It was a constant challenge in each country that we went to, but we were eventually able to find it every time.

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