My Impressions of California

As we started out for California, I had a healthy skepticism about what we’d find there. My parents always talked it down, as in, “Oh, those California people think they’re so great, and they’re not.” They defended our Jersey home turf (largely because they knew nothing else). I wasn’t that rigid, but as we progressed westward, I maintained a strict show-me attitude of, “California is going to have to demonstrate some great things before I cast my lot.” I got tired of hearing drivers talk it up—I’m specifically thinking of the female psychology student in Illinois who dropped us off at Starved Rock State Park, who said, “California is the closest thing we have to a utopia.” Talk like that wore on me fast. Could what she described be true? The curiosity was there. It turned out what I saw I DID like. Starting from the Sierra Nevada mountains, and the campsite I proposed for ourselves across the border, near Truckee (which Otto  nixed), I slowed turned over. The sense of individualism and freedom, the wide-open spaces, the cultural diversity, the mountains and coastline, the enormity of lifestyles, opinions, and attitudes, began to add up for me. The day after Disneyland (page 237) I looked in the mirror and said, “Admit it, Winans—you like ‘Fornia.  Fess up.  It’s grown on you. Admit it” That became my opinion. It took a few weeks, but I was won over in a big way, which resonates to the current.  California is still one of my favorite states and favorite places to visit—even if it seems like you’re on perpetual vacation.

Examples of Ugrading

Putting chunks of narrative and turning them into dialogue helps speed things forward. As the guys enter the Big Sur campground on Day 15, Otto says to Roger, “Know what, it might look better if we get in with a group that has its own campsite, instead of comin’ in and outta the woods.  That way we good legit. We don’t wanna be tossed out by our collars.” All that was originally narrative, kind of laborious to describe, without tension. I changed it to dialogue after looking at it for years, and the result is a vast improvement. Then there’s the sharpening of words. When we were in Santa Cruz, hiking uphill to the college (which we never found), I wrote about the pain I was feeling. “I felt queasy, burdened, sore.  No clue were given as to dormitories.  Otto and I would be considered trespassers. I lumbered through the dark with increasing agony. Mist stung my face. My biceps were sore. Otto walked ahead slowly, as if rigor mortis was about to set in.” That was expanded from about two sentences to seven. Needed to flesh that one out more. Then on the morning of Day 35, after we had witnessed the Buddhist wedding, we wake up and discuss Christianity vs. Buddhism. It’s a healthy back and forth exchange, with Otto concluding, “It’s all one God anyway.” Roger adds, “Approach and perspective, that’s it.  The way, the truth, and the life.” So I'm able to give the edge to Christianity but without dissing another faith.

A Hack Like Me

A hack writer like myself sure learned a lot about writing over the course of forty years.  How can you not? Just the longevity alone gives you practice. (As Henry Miller once wrote, 'Even a bad novelist needs a place to sit down and type.') By letting the manuscript sit for stretches at a time, sometimes years, makes the material spring back at you in a fresh way. Take it from me, I know. When you take it out again, it’s as if you’re dealing with the story for the first time. But the groundwork is done, what a relief. The beginning, middle, and ending are firmly in place. Similarly, when you age a manuscript like this, you immediately see the upgrades that are needed. You notice verbs that need to be more specific, sentences that should be tightened, ideas that need sharpening, the philosophical thrust which needs to be clarified and deepened. All this wouldn’t have happened if I got the novel published in the 1970’s, like I originally hoped. It would have been a lousy piece of literature, a pale replica of what it became. Henry Miller and another literary heavyweight, Norman Mailer, would have laughed at me.

Shocked Into Becoming a Christian

The incident that helped me to embrace Christianity more than anything else was not the night of love and sharing at the Salt Lake City Bible study—important as that was. The clincher came the following night, when we had that harrowing ongoing horror with the cowboys in Wendover, Nevada. Escaping that town unscathed did more to inspire my faith than anything that’s ever happened to me, before or since. It’s because we thought we were dead. We needed a miracle and got one. Though it’s not true the mean cowboy stepped into an animal trap and left to go to the emergency room (I embellished that), everything else was true, including our fear. Coming out of the fellowship mission in SLC may have built up my faith. But it needed a test.  It surely got one the following night. The events of the Bible study were still fresh in mind as we decided to hitch through the night. After the cowboys started tracking us we brought Jesus into the proceedings quite early, like when Otto says, “Jesus God, I’d like to get the heaven out of here.” After we scooted under the wooden trestle to hide, we both prayed as hard as we could “(“I must’ve said that prayer 17 times.”). We prayed to be safe, to stay hidden, and not be injured. And it worked! We came out alive! We both felt sheltered by the blood of Jesus Christ. We gave the Almighty total credit for the deed when it was all over. That’s part of the reason for the extended dialogue on pages 109-110, “giving thanks.”

Keeping It Simple, Stupid

From the beginning of the trip to the end, I was hellbent on keeping things simple, to travel light, meaning to hold what items we brought to an absolute minimum. We brought no tent, only sleeping bags, of course. But the dictum went far deeper than that. Roger’s first complaint to Otto, in fact, is when he enters his bedroom at home and sees tons of items sprawled all over the floor, saying, “I thought we were going to show the world what roughing it really means.” Roger and Otto obviously had already talked about the hazards of clutter and extra weight, but Otto has a tough time complying. His backpack surely weighs more than Roger’s two bags put together. He’s not as spartan as his friend. Roger is far from done with the “travel light” mantra however. Since the Great Salt Lake he wears no underpants, calling them “mangy.” At least twice he is shown reducing what is in his bags. Once is in Hanford (the time he discovers Abbie Hoffman’s book stolen). The other comes in Huntington Beach. The latter purge he eliminates one of his two bags, explaining to Otto, “I needed a reduction in aggravation.” That meant a lot of his extra clothes. Later, in Las Vegas, he buys a new, smaller Jeri-Pak to replace the Yucatan bag which got soaked with gasoline. After cleaning out “torn maps, crumpled napkins, and snack crumbs,” he declares, “As long as I arrive home with my diary, I don’t care if I arrive home nude.” Now that’s going all the way. Clutter author Brooks Palmer writes, “It’s pointless to hold onto things that no longer support you. They take away from you, rather than give you energy. You ask yourself, ‘Is this piece helping me, or hurting me?'”

The Lesson Roger Never Learns

From beginning to end, the one lesson Roger never learns is not to be overconfident. He never shows uncertainty about his abilities, self-reliance, or bravery, even when it’s to his detriment. They get a ride with a tractor-trailer and he’s convinced they’ll be in California in two days. He delivers a baby almost nonchalantly. He stands his ground in Wendover against the cowboys until it’s almost too late. He can’t understand why Laura Gywnne doesn’t take a romantic interest in him. In Utah he sees a car with Jersey plates, and automatically thinks they’ve bagged a ride all the way across. The big hopes turn into some pretty big pratfalls. He takes his share of hard knocks. That's his learning curve. Hopefully readers understand the difference between youthful innocence and being a cocksure bastard, of which the latter he’s not. It is quite an optimistic standpoint, though. That’s the power of having faith. Roger always wants to go for it, latch onto the highest ideal. For that quality, I think he's worthy of praise. I want readers to root for him and like him.

Roger's Diction and Otto's Slang

Right from page 1, with the subject being the police, Otto says, “Hitchhiker’s best friend, ain’t they?” Roger responds, “Oh, definitely.  Never around when you need them.  Always there when you don’t.” Right from the start I take a chance by not quoting which character says what.  By doing so, I am setting up the pattern for all future dialogue.  I am asking you to follow the premise that Otto is the guy who talks in slang and Roger is the guy who doesn’t.  The second time Otto speaks he says, “Stop worryin’ about them cops, will you?” and the pattern is reinforced, if not confirmed. I’ve established a way to distinguish the two. Not that Otto is less educated, because he’s probably got the higher IQ. Even with his down-home, folksy dialogue, he is often more reflective and philosophical. Roger is more ‘proper’ in his speech, but lags behind in the realm of maturity. So it’s an interesting dynamic which slowly flip-flops over the course of the story, when Roger outstrips Otto in the maturity department. But can you still figure out who is who as the story proceeds? Two spots I worry about is Day 7, when the guys are stuck in the boonies of Colorado and have an exchange concerning drivers who clearly see them but don’t stop. There wasn’t enough slang to throw in there for Otto, I guess. Another spot I worry about is the long banter following the scare at Wendover after they escape the cowboys.  That, because it’s simply long. Still, I resist putting in a lot of “Otto said” and “Roger said” as we go along so not to insult the reader. Make the reader work a little bit. The characters should be clear enough so they don’t need to be constantly identified.