The Rain Looks Different in That City

Another weekend, another city, another hotel. At first it had been exciting but as the weeks have turned to months, I've had enough. I'm bored of mini bars, bored of microwaved room service dinners, and so over airports. If I ever step foot in another one I think I'll go mad! At least the tour is nearly over. Just a handful more appearances and then home, NEVER publish a bestseller again.

I don't mean that of course. I can't not write. It's the blood that pumps through my veins (and the daily vat of Starbucks). I just don't think I could go through this rigmarole again. A book tour of all the big cities and towns sounded like such an adventure. I'd see the sights, talk about my book, and get paid for it. Exciting, right? 

At first, yes. But the novelty had worn off by the end of the 4th week. 

I want to go home now. I want to see my husband, stroke my cat, and sit on the back deck with a cup of tea in MY mug. 

I miss my life. This isn't my life. Not really. I wanted this but now the glitter has fallen off being a “successful” writer. It’s miserable! With little time to actually write. 

I feel like I’m playing a part, like an actor in a film. I don't want to be in front of the camera anymore. I want to fade into the background again. The grass isn't greener on the other side. I know that now. I don’t want success if this is what it's like.

These last few weeks I've taken to holing up in the room with my laptop for company. I'm peopled out. I can only scrape together enough energy to do the readings and answer a few questions from the fans. Every day, on the way to the bookstore, I pray that this is the day no one shows up. A day I can reclaim as my own to get lost in a good book in a comfy chair in a local library with a never-ending cup of coffee, to recharge my depleted batteries. It never happens. Instead hordes of chatty readers bombard me with inane questions and vie for my attention with their personalised message and selfie requests. I can't wait for it to be over.

My smile lost it’s honesty somewhere after Portland. Gosh, I miss Portland. I love that city, and the three days I got to spend there were the happiest of this entire tour. If I could cope with city living, Portland would be the one I'd call home. There's something magical about it that speaks to my soul. The pulse of belonging. Portland is a one-off. There's nowhere like it. Even the rain looks different in that city. 

I adore the rain. I’m a straight-up pluviophile. I guess living in Oregon you have to be! It’s so pure and life giving. There's nothing more restorative than a long walk in the recently rained-upon forest. Shiny green wetness. The fresh, cool air scented with pine and earth. Who needs to meditate when you have that on your doorstep? Just thinking about it now makes me smile and floods my system with calm. I cannot wait to get back home, where I have all that lush greenness right outside my window. To enjoy whenever I want; for as long as I want. 

It’s more than that. I NEED to get back home. As soon as possible. 

I am suffocating here. Every day a little more of me hibernates from this soulless repetition of hotel chains and big book merchants, waiting for life to be naturally restored. I feel like one of those dancing bears chained to a circus cage, made to perform and entertain until one day he becomes so broken he gives up and lets the reaper rescue him. 

I can feel myself getting closer and closer to the edge, and I don’t know what demons are waiting for me in the darkness below. I'm afraid I might find out. I am getting more and more in need of rescue.

'There are only 5 days left.’ I keep telling myself, ’that’s less than a week.'

I just hope I make it.