Jake Writes From The Van
Bio
Once upon a time I developed ad copy. It was a living but not a life. I swapped it for a van & notebooks.
Now give me books, beers, and the open road. A worn-in paperback situated near a grandiose view.
And as always, my pup by my side.
Stories (3/0)
Reading and the Road
I am stationed somewhere along the coast of northern California, a late September snow having stolen any glimpse of Crater Lake, pushing me on down the line sooner than anticipated to meander the winding, stomach-churning forest roads running deep through the shadows of towering Redwoods. At a scenic overlook perched above a picturesque beach, I’d taken to a secluded spot of pavement at the far end of the lot. The van had been backed up tight to the concrete barrier, a hefty glass of red wine poured, doors swung open, bench seat flipped down, and pillows organized to provide suitable comfort. It was then when I’d gotten to work. The town of Salinas sits no more than a handful of hours to the south from here. I glide over the final few pages of Steinbeck’s classic while lifting my head to sneak intrepid gazes of a burning sun as it falls into slumber beyond the horizontal clip of the Pacific. There is significant recognition as to how my eyes are feasting upon a similar scene and story to so many of those who’ve come before me. To the author himself. To the cast of characters. How all of them had either, in the flesh or on account of their creation, watched this same star crash into this very ocean.
By Jake Writes From The Van2 years ago in Wander
Charley, my girl
I don’t really know where to begin. It’s not easy with her. I could write and write and never stop, never bothering with sleep or a meal, just keeping at it the whole while, hammering away at this keyboard until my fingers transform into bloody nubs, talking about my girl without pause. Some memories are built within the confines of tight parameters, they sport distinct edges joining beginning to end, but with Charley, well, you can toss normalcy out the window and watch it float about the highway wind, adding yet another page to the slurry of personal histories us travelers deposit in our wake. The whole thing had been an adventure you see, every last biting droplet of life to be wrung from the rag. She was one of those once-in-a-lifetime affairs, and thus I fail to convince myself how a single day nor hour of her time here does not matter to it.
By Jake Writes From The Van2 years ago in Petlife
The Pond
This place belonged to him. It was his place. Call it whatever you wish. Sanctuary. Oasis. This specific location, this patch of soil and grass and marvelous maples, land stationed here for millions of years in all the varieties time entails, neat lines marked out by latitude and longitude and manufactured plot lines, whether it be in plain view or buried beneath ice, no one held quite the same adoration for it as he has. Ever.
By Jake Writes From The Van2 years ago in Fiction
