There is no accounting for this book. As you will discover, this book is about a hike I took in July of 2004 in the Wallowa Mountains of Oregon. The hike lasted seven days and covered roughly 70 miles. You may well ask what strange force or fearsome madness could drive a man to write what amounts to a book-length version of What I Did on My Summer Vacation. Surely it is not because I believe that the world needs or wants it.
In real life, editors – and here I must add that, not knowing any real live editors, I imagine them all to be square-jawed, gruff taskmasters, chewing cigars, and looking exactly like the editor of the Daily Planet, the newspaper where Clark Kent worked in all those comic books I read as a child – anyway, these editors are most decidedly not shouting out their office doors at quivering underlings, “Get me a writer who can write 75,000 words on What I Did on My Summer Vacation – and look alive!” At which orders said quivering underlings shoot off in a dozen directions squeaking, “The Boss wants summer vacation copy and lots of it, pronto!” until, by a natural process that exists only in dreams, I find myself signing a lucrative contract for the work you are now reading.
As I say, even in my fondest dreams, I do not imagine this is so.
The real reason I am undertaking this foolish task is because I have always wanted to write a book. Do not ask me why. If you are among the many billions of sane, well-grounded, perfectly normal humans who have never wanted to write a book, then I doubt I could ever explain the urge to you. In fact, if you are among the many thousands, even millions, of deluded souls who long to write a book, even then I doubt my ambition would make much sense to you, for if you number yourself among those millions, let me ask you a question. When you examine the secret recesses of your heart, isn’t it truer to say that what you yearn for is not to write, but to be the author of a book that is already written?
After all, writing is such a bother. For one thing, there are so many words to choose from and so many ways to put them together that you could edit yourself six ways to Sunday and never be sure if you’ve hit on the exact right combination. It can be daunting. If you don’t believe me, then you have only to gaze on those millions of prospective authors. There you shall see the drawn and drained faces where endless hours of daunting have left their indelible mark.
That is one reason why the budding, infant, larval, or otherwise unformed writer so often seeks encouragement and advice from someone who claims to know how it’s done. Books on writing books are always reassuring, since the very fact that one is reading such a book proves that the author has written and published at least one book. Therefore, their advice can be trusted. It stands to reason.
As one of those folks who always wanted to write a book I have read more than one of these compendiums of good advice - and if there is one thing that each and every one of these sages agrees upon it is this: write what you know. When you come to think on it, this is stupendous advice. For one thing, it cuts down considerably on the research needed before you can start. For another, it completely averts the unfortunate possibility of writing an entire book that no one can make heads nor tails of and is filled with gibberish from beginning to end. If you are like me and have a strong tendency towards gibberish, this kind of discipline is invaluable.
Therefore, in the face of this universally-advanced and uniformly-approved advice, I have decided to write about my summer vacation. What could be simpler? I’d venture to claim that I am the world’s foremost authority on my summer vacation. If the books on how to write books are to be believed, my success is now all but assured!