I’m prone to motion sickness. I come from a long line of backseat booters. Anymore, the only time I get motion sickness is on a plane or on an ocean-going vessel. I don’t worry so much about the boats because I’ve only been on an ocean-going vessel in choppy seas four times in my life.  But the airplane…

Completely psychological.  It’s a handshake combination of claustrophobia and motion sickness that gets me. Ironically, once the plane is in motion I’m fine. But waiting on the tarmacadam for the plane to push back, I feel claustrophobic and trapped. If the cabin is overly warm, I’m sunk. Once I feel that first trickle of perspiration beading up on my scalp, the Boot-O-Meter has pegged the Red Zone. This is why I never eat until I touch down at my destination.

My father turned me on to Scopolamine patches in the 90s. These are a small miracle. They are, essentially, a medicated band-aid you stick behind your ear a couple hours before you travel. They last for a week.  As long as I have my Scopolamine patch behind my ear, I can ride The Zipper at the county fair for six straight hours while eating creamed corn out of a hobo’s asshole and not blanch.

And really, it’s probably Dumbo’s feather. Completely psychological. I didn’t care how it works. Only that it works.

My father wrangled a one time, probably-illegal purchase of a crate of Scopolamine patches. I used to have 300 of them. Now I have one precious patch left in my travel shaving kit. I’m saving it for my next ride on the Catalina Flyer through rough seas.

Which leaves me with Dramamine.

Dramamine has a remarkable ability to turn me off like a light switch. I mean O-U-T out. Invariably, I blink. The Fasten Seatbelt light goes off. I tilt the seat back. And then I’m awakened by a flight attendant asking me if I want pretzels. I look at my watch. I was out for 90 minutes. I blink. I’m awakened once more by a flight attendant. Time to put my seat forward. I look at my watch. I was just asleep for two hours. It’s crazy how quickly I can blink IN and then OUT and then back IN deep REM sleep when I’m under the spell of Dramamine. Crazy.

“So what does an exclusive and this stupid allegory about Dramamine have to do with missing a post on Wordcraft Wednesday, Shawn?”

The Excusive: I’ve started another writing project to keep busy. This is not news. I start a lot of writing projects, but abandon them when I realize I don’t give a shit about the characters I’m writing and no one else will either.

As I stumble across blogfodder throughout the week, I store notes on my Google cloud drive.

…Right next to my half-finished stories.

I logged in to grab my Wordcraft Wednesday notes, saw the file for a story I had abandoned, and from out of nowhere, had a “Hey what if so-and-so did this and then I transitioned the POV to the kid’s girlfriend for a while instead. That would solve the X and the Y and the Gigglin’ pin would finally mate up with the Laughin shaft at just the right angle.” moment.

This was at 3 p.m.

I’ve described what I call “The Trance” to my friends, but nobody seems to understand. Mostly I trot out “The Trance” to debunk the precious idea of a Writer’s Room. Study. Special pen. A particular music that must be blaring in the background. “Maybe I’ll write again when the kids get older and go to school.” Special coffee and a particular table at the Café that must be secured in order TO WRITE.

Writers have all these bullshit constructs we build for ourselves in the name of THIS IS HOW I WRITE, and 99% of the time, those constructs turn out to actually serve as an excuse for THIS IS WHY I DIDN’T WRITE ANYTHING TODAY.

                Buuuuuuuulll…..

                                                Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!

The Writer’s Trance. Fuckin’ magic, the Writer’s Trance. When it clicks, when the immersion in craft gets me, writing stops being a slog and turns into a transcendent back spring of brain yoga. I get from here to there with merely a couple jolts awake from a Dramamine-like stupor.

I opened my story file at 3:00. At 3:01 My Beautiful Wife texted me to say she was cooking dinner and ask when was I headed home. Oh wait. It’s not 3:01. It’s 5:40. How did that happen? Shit. I was in a writing trance, wasn’t I?

I texted back that I was shutting down my computer and heading home.

I looked back at the screen.

Dramamine. Bling! Another text. 6:15. Wife wants to know where I am. SHIT! How did I—

Another text. It’s 6:40. My Find My Friends map dot on her phone has not moved. I couldn’t lie if I wanted to. Defeated by technology.

“Don’t trance,” I say to myself. “Don’t look at the screen. Just save. Don’t trance. Shut down your browser and….  Oh WOW! In my Inbox: Another request for pages from another agent!!!”

Pages that I can’t send. Not for a while.

The Trance ate my homework. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. My writing trance is Dumbo’s feather. I don’t care how it works. Just please, God, don’t let it stop working.