#campmo

For three days and two nights, WriMos filled the cabins, writing and eating and writing and drinking and writing some more. The lack of cell service, TV, or wi-fi forced us to spend time in our imaginations, and I wrote something like 25,000 words in three days. 

Some years later, I had an actual book contract for a Florida travel narrative based on 1930s-era road trips. I’d done the research. I’d written the book proposal. I’d gotten the contract. My first meeting with my editor went well, until I casually asked her how much she thought the book would cost readers. She said she’d take a look at the projections and budget from whatever department did those things, and I froze. 

This wasn’t my book any longer, I realized. This was something more; it now lived officially outside my head. However well it sold – which means, of course, however well I wrote it – would impact people’s jobs. My publisher was investing time, money, and talent into bringing my book to print – and if I failed, they would suffer. 

I stayed frozen for a few months more. The voices in my head constantly reminded me how much other people had invested in a book I couldn’t seem to write.

And then it was November. I took a leave of absence from my paying writing job – a hyperlocal weekly newspaper where I covered city council, Little League, and various duck scandals – and focused on churning out a draft.

And I went back to the cabin to find that CampMo magic. I fell upon that cabin like a menopausal woman on an ice floe. I holed up in a chair and, with all the distractions of the world removed, I wrote. And wrote. And then I had a beer, because this isn’t a movie and I’m human. But then I wrote some more. I took a short walk through the woods, sure. I left to go get more beer. But I wrote.

Although I didn’t finish the draft that weekend, I wrote a lot of it, and finished the rest of it by November 30. Months after publication, the New York Times profiled “Backroads of Paradise.” The publisher printed a second run, then a third.

CampMo Magic.

This year, with (hopefully) the worst of COVID-19 behind us, I’m looking at November cabins again, hoping not only to go back and meet the magic, but to share it with other writers. 

Cathy Salustri works out of Gulfport, Florida, travels across Florida on foot, bike, boat, or car to places the Interstate bypassed long ago, as well as those spots where natural beauty has survived the onslaught of overpopulation. She attended the University of Central Florida, and earned her undergraduate degree at the University of Tampa finding the Florida Studies MLA program at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg. Cathy has written travel pieces for USA Today, Visit Florida, regional magazines and local press. You can find all her travel writing at the greatfloridaroadtrip.com.