25 Hour Watch

I’ve set out to do something special. Something memorable. Something timeless. I’ve set out to write a piece of classic literature. Someday to be published as a Penguin Classic, or better yet, a distinguished addition to the Modern Library.

I suspect (but have no proof) that this is the difference between myself (up until now) as a writer and the legendary authors of our time. The Vonnegut’s and Pynchon’s of the literary world would never set out to compose just another novel. Nor shall I. One can rightfully assume that they would in no way be satisfied with an ordinary output. They do (or did) not simply write for the sake of writing. They have a purpose. I have found my purpose. I will not settle for anything less than excellence.

Now, where exactly does one begin when he (or she, as the case may be) sets out to compose a piece worthy of the label ‘classic’? I have determined that the best course of action is to explore a subject or setting as of yet unexplored in modern literature. This leaves approximately one place. The Atacama Desert. When was the last time the Hogwart’s Express made a stop over in Northern Chile? Or a celebrity author/critic highlighted the rich literary tradition of the desert in the NYT Book Review?

I will admit this idea is not completely my own. Similar projects have proven successful in the past. Bruce Chatwin for instance and his true (though often proven false) account of his travels ‘In Patagonia’ is currently available as a Penguin Classic. And his name is found on every Moleskine journal wrapper. That’s the kind of success I’m aiming for!

Chatwin (like myself) was not considered an author until he packed off down to Patagonia for 6 months. The landscape he witnessed and the lives he observed formed the basis for the travel memoir that helped define the genre as we know it. I’m sure Chatwin knew exactly what he was setting out to do. That’s what great authors like us have in common.

I should mention I am furiously scribbling these thoughts down in my fake Moleskine as I enter the Atacama Desert aboard a rather normal looking passenger bus. The road, albeit paved, feels more like a weathered gravel road after a fierce rain storm. The bus however, is far and away better than I envisioned when I set out on my journey. Inside, the bus is crowded, not with chickens, but with Bolivians en route to the ocean. It appears that I alone am eager to experience the desert in all it’s glory. They obviously don’t see the hidden potential for literary history. This is perfect. All I have to do is think. And write. And greatness will flow forth unto the page.

Remember how I was impressed by the appearance and the general working condition of the bus? Well, I now sit on a rock on the side of the highway as the driver attempts (quite unsuccessfully) to raise the entire craft with a single jack in order to replace the the badly splintered remnants of a tire. My choice of seat is not particularly comfortable, but I did have my pick of what appears to be an infinite supply of jagged chairs waiting for a stranded bum. Also, I am freezing. I thought deserts were vast regions of sand and heat, but this one seems to have traded its heat for a brisk wind. And extra sand. Not only does this make for difficult writing conditions, but it also makes me question my choice of setting. Depending on the genre you write, setting is either incredibly critical or practically useless. My guess is, with travel writing, it is of some importance.

Back on the bus now, looking and waiting for inspiration from the strangest of places. Anything. Come on. My under-heated microwave entree for lunch may be my best hope at this point. What is culebra anyway?

You know, I’m going to be honest. There’s a lot sand here. Occasionally a rock will break up the monotony for me. And this one time I thought I saw a tree. Turns out it was just more sand with a faint shadow from a rainless cloud. Bummer.

Have I mentioned how BIG the Atacama Desert is? 600 miles long. On a bus. That’s roughly four days of 10 hour bus rides. This seemed like a brilliant opportunity at the outset. Now i just want to see something green. I love green. Why do you hate green, desert? Why?

I’m beginning to wonder if, just maybe, there is a reason no author has ever written anything (classic or not!) involving the Atacama. Yes, it’s the highest and driest desert in the world. But other than that, it doesn’t have a lot going for it. Unless you like rocky beaches. Without water. Or ice cream stands. For days at a time.

Maybe a more experienced author like Chatwin could use his sparse descriptions to morph this desert into something worth reading. I have come to realize, I am not this writer. Someday, when I’ve polished my raw talent with other writing endeavors, I will return to the site of my first (and only) failure. There’s a book to be had here, I just can’t find it. Trust me, I looked. The only thing I found was the overwhelming desire to sleep. Goodnight my friends.