Travel Day

In 1937 the young journalist Martha Gellhorn traveled to Spain to to observe the Spanish Civil War and to get a little private face-time with Ernest Hemingway. She carried only a knapsack, a portable typewriter, and fifty dollars in her pocket. I think for Martha, or Marty as Ernest would call her, it wasn't what she brought along on her travels that bore importance, it was more about what she left behind. There's nothing romantic in packing up your entire apartment and dragging it along with you on your travels. Far more romantic to leave it all behind. Everything.

Martha would become a life-long traveler, never staying in one place for very long. She would go on to have homes in Cuba, Mexico, Rome, East Africa, and eventually London. Her homes were always small if not humble and in terms of mod cons, sparsely equipped. Instead the layover-homes contained the essentials for a writer who spent most of her time on the move: books, a typewriter, booze, and an ashtray for her never ending cigarette. Even into her late eighties she was always ready to travel at a moment's notice and often found herself making difficult journeys on her own dime in order to research a new novel she was writing or to find the truth behind an armed conflict or the resulting carnage of that conflict.

She had a son, Sandy (adopted), but she would claim herself to be the worst mother in the world. She had several husbands (including Hemingway), but she would claim to not only be a poor wife, but also very bad in bed. Once, she spent a couple of years playing the house-frau to the then editor and chief of Time Magazine, complete with weekend house parties in the suburbs and she nearly committed suicide from the boredom and despair. I think it safe to say that Martha Gellhorn was not the domestic type.

I've just packed my knapsack. I have considerably more than fifty bucks stuffed in my pocket, but given the more than three quarters of a century that's lapsed in between 1937 and now, I'm not carrying much more than its 2013 equivalent. I'm heading back to Italy for two months and then onto France for the New Years. When I'm gone I will be rewriting two books, MOONLIGHT WEEPS and THE BREAKUP. I'll also be mapping out another new standalone that at present has no title. I'll be taking care of my normal journalistic duties for some magazines I work for (I have a deadline tomorrow which I'll make as a soon as I land in Rome). It will be a busy time that will also include some four-wheeling in the Tuscan Mountains and short trips to other countries. Traveling light without the burden of possessions is important. Traveling without regret is essential.

I'm not sure who pointed out to me that if sharks don't move forward they die. Probably some dude in a bar. But no one wants to be that dead shark laid out on the couch watching the flat screen in his living room whispering shoulda, coulda, woulda. Not me anyway.

Passport...check.
Boarding pass...check.
Wallet and euros...check.
Kindle...check.
Backpack...check.
Laptop...check.

I'm off to the airport.
So long and farewell.

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I'm a Passenger

The grand observatory that the Incas built more than 700 years ago and that Hiram Bingham tripped over in 1911. A significant portion remains unearthed and undiscovered.

What hasn't been written about Peru's great wonder of the world, Machu Picchu that hasn't already been written? The answer is obvious, which is why I'm not about to even remotely attempt to describe the things you can perhaps, already imagine, even if you've never before stepped foot on the 2,430 m high mountain. You see the massive terraces and try to picture what it must have been like for the ancient Incas to carve them out of thick jungle vegetation-covered granite. You picture men literally falling off the mountain while trying to tame it. You see the giant granite boulders on the mountain-top "quarry," some weighing dozens of tons, and you can't help but imagine a man being crushed under its weight during the process of transporting the stones to their final position. Then, you can't help but feel pain for these people who were forced to flee from their sacred home in the night while the Spanish closed in on them, with the promise of death, destruction, and the hording of their precious metals.

I'm not going to describe standing on the mountain as the the sun breaks through the clouds, revealing the massive peaks that surround me, their presence looking almost fake. Like a brilliant projection flashed up onto a gigantic screen. You must fight the urge to reach out and touch these peaks, as if that were possible, only to feel yourself losing your balance. Should that happen, and you go over the side, the only thing that awaits you is a one way ticket to the Gods.

I'm a passenger these days. An observer. A mover. I don't rest. I don't sit down. I stand. I walk. I run. I'm never still, even at home. The itch to explore is sometimes so great, I think it will never be scratched. The itch is located in a spot along my spine that is impossible to reach. Or perhaps it's located in my brain. So the only cure is to keep on moving. I'm coming down from Machu Picchu after one of the most breathtaking hikes I've ever experienced. My body and clothing are soaked in sweat that's mixed with the mist from the clouds that move in and out of these Andes Mountains like foamy waves constantly and never-endingly lapping a seashore. Soon I'm seated on a bus that transports forty passengers too rapidly for the narrow mountain roads that hug cliff-sides thousands of feet high. One false move on this rain-soaked gravel road and we're done for.

You can't take in a life-experience like this one all at once. It has to upload, like a computer program. One day you can be doing the most mundane thing, like the laundry for instance, and it will hit you. I've hiked Machu Picchu...I've entered into the Third Pyramid in Giza all alone...I've jogged Tienanmen Square just a few years after a young man defied bullets and held back a tank with his frail body...I've visited a healer in the Austrian Alps and seen the sun come up on the basin in Venice...I've ridden a Ferris wheel with the one woman I truly loved in Paris...I've been stranded in the African bush and been accused of killing many men by a voodoo Beniois...I've ridden the metro in Moscow and somehow found my way around...I've touched the Parthenon and walked over the Mammar Bridge in Turkey...I've touched the English Channel with my bare toes on the sandy beaches of D-Day's Normandy...I've four-wheeled in the Tuscan mountains with a best friend who's always yelling at me to learn the Italian language...And on and on and on...But that's not enough.

I'm a passenger on a journey that is not only never ending, it's speeding up. In my mind, I'm planning the next stop. India. I haven't yet been to India. I need to see India. So many of you have been there and I am as envious as I am curious.

On the way back into Cusco, the driver of my van tries to negotiate the relentless traffic. After a day on a magic mountain, we're stuck in traffic. Then comes the near deafening and horribly heart wrenching squeal of a dog as a tourist bus runs over one its legs, crushing it. I don't want to look but I have to look. When I see the small brown, furry dog limping away on three legs, my heart sinks into my stomach. Tears cloud my eyes. No one in the van speaks a word about it. Not the driver. Not my guide. No one. But you feel the pain like the mist that still soaks your clothing.

I'm a passenger.

 

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Your Eggs in a Basket

The dynamic literary duo, Hemingway and Gellhorn, each maintained a steady mix of both fiction and journalism. Why shouldn't you?




Writing is a business.
Think of yourself as (Name Here) Inc.
Which means, change the title of this blog to, Your Eggs in BasketS...Plural.

It's a tired cliche..."Don't put all your eggs into one basket." But you know what gets even more tired? Being broke all the time.

If you want to be a successful writer...a writer who actually makes a good living, eats, travels, enjoys life...then learn to write not only in many different styles and even genres, but don't give up the journalism either. When one thing isn't doing it for you or your wallet, something else will. By splitting up your time between several forms of fiction, be it novels, novellas, film scripts, novel adaptations, etc., along with several forms of journalism, photo-journalism, pro blogging, etc., can you ensure yourself steady and meaningful work.

Take it from one who knoweth. Back in the late 1990s, when I landed my first big book contract, I chucked journalism like a bad habit. When the book deal went south a couple of years later due to a corporate merger, I was left with zero means for earning an income. I had to pretty much beg news media outlets to give me another chance. Which they eventually did. Now, I have several new book contracts, but I still maintain my journalism chops. Never again will I be caught with my pants down around my ankles or my baskets empty of eggs.
 

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First By-Line for Future Foreign Correspondent

Who doesn't want this gig?

Once a year I speak to a class of young would-be journalists enrolled in Albany State's (SUNY) International Journalism class. It's a gig I love since I'm pretty passionate about talking writing, especially when I get to talk about myself. What's the one golden rule of journalism we all abide by? People love to talk about themselves! And anyone who has followed my career and enjoyed it, or anyone who simply thinks I'm an egocentric tool, knows full well how much I love to talk about myself.

But speaking to this class is a way for me to give back and to offer some practical advice about reporting from the field, be it Africa, Moscow, Italy, Turkey, Paris, or downtown Albany. There's no rush like filing a story and seeing it go live on-line or printed in a glossy magazine. It's a rush I truly miss now that I'm once again a full-time novelist.

What you're about to read is a piece that was written soon after my visit to the journalism class. It was originally submitted as a part of a mandatory class assignment, but when the class prof read it and chose it as her favorite, she decided to send it on to me. I liked it so much, and thought it so accomplished for a journalism neophyte, I offered to publish it here. And hey, it's all about me.

So, Kenny Gould, young journalist, congrats on your first, or at least, one of your first by-lines. May you enjoy thousands more. And like me, may you become utterly obsessed with words and lust publication even more than the opposite sex.

Author Vincent Zandri Speaks to International Journalism Class

by Kenny Gould

    It's rather fitting then that, along with sleeping pills, antibiotics, earplugs, and electrical converters, the "Vincent Zandri Survival Kit" conveniently includes condoms. Zandri didn't set out to give a politically correct "how-to" speech on how to be a journalist in a foreign nation. As a matter of fact, he hates the idea of making how-to guides. He didn't talk about the Five Ws of journalism, he talked about the Five Ws of his own experiences as a foreign corespondent. His speech was a bit scatterbrained at times, but it was brutally honest. By his own admission, if you're looking to be anything but lonely, always on the go, and in plenty of debt, you should quit journalism while you still have a chance to do so. Being a foreign corespondent isn't for you.
    You may be a stringer gathering information, a photojournalist grabbing stills, a reporter on camera, or the guy who sits down and write the news story. Whatever you can find work doing, take it. "The world is on a string. Dismiss opportunities at your own peril." In Zandri's experience, there are times where months can go by without getting a break. Other times you're swamped and scrambling to keep up with dozens of other journalists out there just like you, desperately trying to get the next big scoop.
    The world of foreign correspondence has changed, says Zandri. He's hardly the only person to feel that way. He started reporting before the digital revolution took over journalism. Before you needed to have a Twitter account. Nowadays a popular blog can circulate Facebook with breaking news before it hits CNN. "If it wasn't for social networking," Zandri says, "I'd be screwed." Writers are some of the most competitive artists out there. Any edge you can get, you should take.
    When all else fails, take a break. After years in the field, Zandri is using his stories and his experiences as a journalist to write novels. Using the same social media connections you've already established as a journalist makes getting yourself out there that much easier. His son Harrison is now following in his footsteps as a writer because of it. If novels aren't your thing, trade journalism is a great way to pay the bills, says Zandri. "There's always something out there interesting to someone. As a journalist, you need to learn to write interestingly about a tea bag if you need to."
    What should you take away from this? If anything, it's the simple fact that journalism, foreign or otherwise, is not a science. There's no one way to get out there or stay out there. There's no one path to take. Whatever path you do end up making for yourself won't be an easy one, says Zandri. But if that rush, that high, and those endorphins can keep you going, it's all worth it.

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