Pieces of Myself

So, I’m starting to suspect (after I turned rooms upside down and even checked under the bed for it) that I left a notebook in a hotel in Alabama.

Which got me wondering how many “pieces of myself” I’ve left in various parts of the country (or world)….

I’m fairly sure a few sheaves of paper containing a really bad novel chapter (I was only 12) got left behind in a closet in Spangdahlem, Germany. There’s been a napkin or two with scrawled notes left to absorb coffee and soda rings in various restaurants throughout the South. And I’m fairly sure the Colorado River devoured a story summary that blew out of my hand as I stood on a hotel balcony in Laughlin, Nevada.

And that’s just what I recall.

I’m normally, well, we’ll say “on the ball”—for polite terminology—when it comes to making sure I’ve got all of my writing gathered and packed. But every now and then something slips by.

Maybe that’s part of the writing life.

Anyway, should the notebook not turn up in some place that I’ve already searched —under the seat of my car, in the fridge (no, I don’t know what it’d be doing in there)—I hope whoever finds it enjoys the scribbles. And the notebook.

Have you left “pieces of yourself” around? Get any good stories out of it?


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