Kara and I are currently in Fort Collins, Colorado. Since getting here, we’ve ranged out to local towns, gone hiking with friends, had some great food and great coffee. We even celebrated my birthday here.

The Autumn has brought with it a shift in color and tone—we find ourselves surrounded by golden hues as the leaves turn. This gold falls to the ground around us, painting the entire landscape like a scene from a coming-of-age film. I’ve sat by lakes that look like the sort of thing people save to their computer desktops or iPhone backgrounds.

When we started this journey, even before it became #VanLife, I’ll admit to some trepidation. Despite the fact that this is something I’ve talked about, dreamed about, wanted since I was very young, I’d gotten al little relaxed in my life. I had come to love my little office, with the plush chair for napping and the hand-hewn desk made of plumbing fixtures and barn wood. I’d gotten accustomed to dreaming, instead of living, but I was ok enough for it. I had a very comfortable spot.

Getting out here has been a little uncomfortable. And that’s good. Discomfort means growth. I like growth.

In the past couple of months, Kara and I have called a lot of places home. Holland, Michigan, was beautiful. So were the Black Hills of South Dakota. We enjoyed Cheyenne, Wyoming, and we’ve loved every minute of Fort Collins, Colorado, as well as Loveland, Longmont, Boulder, Golden. We’ll head for Colorado Springs soon, and we already know we love it there.

This has been a weird sort of journey, but it’s filling me up. It’s giving me a sort of nourishment I didn’t even realize I was missing. Trepidation went out the window after the first thousand miles.

Eventually I’ll go back to the office, and the plush chair, the naps and the hand-built desk. It will be in a new space, a new part of the world I probably haven’t even been to yet. It’ll will be just one more part of the journey.

Until then, the world is my office, my front and back yard, my meditation garden and my inspiration.

Not bad.

#3PiecesOfWisdom 10 October 2020:

• Look for moments that move you to tears.

• Find out what is precious to someone else and provide it for them.

• To get whatever you want in life, help others get what they want.

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.”

— Mark Twain

Mark Twain said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice.” I can tell you this is true.

The more you explore the world, getting out of your comfort zone and shifting your perspective, the more you come to understand that the “other” doesn’t exist.

We, all of us, are in this together.

Kevin Tumlinson is a bestselling and award-winning author. He is currently traveling the United States with his wife, Kara, and their little dog, Mini, experiencing #VanLife as Kevin writes and publishes from the road. Follow the adventure at AuthorOnTheRoad.com.

#3PiecesOfWisdom 09 October 2020:

• All roads go somewhere, if you’re just driving. Destinations can be defaults or choices.

• Drive slow enough to enjoy the journey.

• Choose a destination, plot your path, then enjoy the trip as you go.

#Travel #VanLife

It’s our last morning in Hot Springs, South Dakota. We’ve been here two weeks (seems like more, in a good way) and explored and admired and felt awe a dozen times. If you’ve never been, head for the Black Hills and thank me later.

This journey that Kara and I are on is a healing journey. It’s a change for us to experience the world in a way we’ve only dreamed about. The trip isn’t entirely the way we envisioned it, but that’s been more of a positive than I would have assumed.

Kara and I are definitely road trip people. That, we’ve solidly discovered. But also, because of this, we’re thinking we’re home base people as well. We like having some place to return to, cozy and comfortable. Even if we get the itch to get back on the road a week later.

We still have some miles ahead of us on this full time #vanlife thing. Still plenty of opportunities to have our minds and perceptions expanded. Still lots of time to shift our thinking. Full time could still hold its appeal a year from now, maybe two, maybe more.

But I suspect we’ll be house hunting through all of this. Home hunting. Home base hunting. Not as “we have to get off the road,” but more of “it’s time to stake out our spot.”

Until then, there are the miles. And the vistas. And the people. And the inspiration. We’re going places, and enjoying every mile of it.

#3PiecesOfWisdom 08 October 2020:

• Good routines help overcome bad habits.

• If you assume 100% responsibility for everything in your life, you become empowered to change your direction.

• Forgive quickly, forget all offenses instantly.

In the hills near Los Lunas New Mexico, the mysterious Decalogue Stone may hold the key to a forgotten history of the Americas

In Los Lunas, New Mexico, there is a stone called the “mystery stone,” or the Decalogue stone. It sits in the hills about 16 miles from town. You need a permit to see it.

The stone is carved with writing that it’s discoverer claims is ancient Hebrew.

When translated, the text on the Decalogue stone is, roughly, the Ten Commandments.

Discovered in 1933, by Professor of Archaeology Frank Hibben, the stone is the center of a controversy. Hibben proclaimed it was evidence of pre-Colombian Semitic contact in the Americas.

But many in the academic and scientific community believe it’s a fake, perpetrated by Hibben himself. Hibben had a history of faking data to prove his theories.

Sort of shoots your credibility in the foot.

Despite this, however, the stone remains a mystery. And an intriguing one.

If it’s real, it fairly rewrites what we think we know about the history of the Americas. And it bears striking implications for the early culture and population of this part of the world.

The fact is, we do have proof of early visitation to the America’s by outsiders. Vikings have a confirmed presence, as just one example. And there are signs of Celtics, in areas far inland from the East coast.

It’s not as far fetched as it may seem.

What would it mean for the Americas to have been visited by ancient Hebrews? And if this happened, are there more signs of it out there?

Are we, perhaps, overlooking America’s lost history?

Kevin Tumlinson is a bestselling and award-winning author. He is currently traveling the United States with his wife, Kara, and their little dog, Mini, experiencing #VanLife as Kevin writes and publishes from the road. Follow the adventure at AuthorOnTheRoad.com.

#3PiecesOfWisdom 07 October 2020:

• When things go wrong, don’t panic and give up—own it and make a decision.

• If your life isn’t the way you want it, what will you do to get on track?

• Don’t mourn or regret bad choices. Use them as fuel for better decisions.

Not a beer.

A Day at the Office

Yesterday we spent the day working from Stockade Lake, in Cussler State Park, South Dakota.

I have to admit, South Dakota is nothing like I pictured it. Parts of it are—wide, open, miles of barely anything. But here, near the Black Hills, it’s simply one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.

I have to admit, it’s an amazing privilege to be able to spend time in places like this, doing my work from an office that includes lakes and trees and mountain vistas. It’s just beautiful and inspiring.

We’ve done some of the touristy stuff—Mt. Rushmore, the Cosmos Mystery Area, the Crazy Hours monument. But I think what I’m loving most is packing up in the mornings and finding some place stunning to work for the day. There’s something to be said for taking a break to look out at glorious nature.

We are here in South Dakota for just a few more days, and then it’s off to Colorado, where we’ll spend about a month before rolling on to Utah for Thanksgiving. I expect that between now and then, there will be more beauty, more things of interest to explore, more life to observe and to live.

Today I have some things on my plate that will keep me heads-down for a bit. But I do get the honor of being able to look up at tall pines and blue skies, from time to time.

As offices go, I can’t picture a better one.

#3PiecesOfWisdom 06 October 2020:

• It’s simple—if it’s the right thing, do it. If it’s the wrong thing, don’t do it.

• We tend to make things more complicated than they need to be.

• In the moment when you feel lost, trust your own wisdom.

---

THE LEVER, THE FULCRUM, AND THE BOULDER

I used to wake up in funks that ran all day. I’d be grumpy and irritable, or I’d be sullen and silent. Or I’d range between those kind states all day. I’ve only recently started shaking that sort of thing off.

It’s not easy. Waking up in a funk is kind of like a boulder coming to rest in a stream. It’s big and heavy, and it fell in there by default. Getting it out again takes so much effort, it doesn’t feel worth it. You figure you’ve just got a boulder now, and your stream is blocked.

The thing is, you need that stream to flow freely. You can’t just leave that big rock in it. You depend on that water. So, you gotta move this thing.

You could call for help. No shame in that. But you might be able to move the boulder yourself, with some effort. Find a lever and a fulcrum, and you could be in business. Pry that boulder out and let your stream flow freely.

For me, my lever is things like writing and doing creative work, taking walks in nature, reading and watching inspirational things, listening to good music. Almost anything can be a lever, actually. But the fulcrum...

The fulcrum has to be your wisdom and all you’ve learned. Your philosophy in life. Your chosen perspective. You have to have a solid, strong fulcrum. You need to have something you can trust. My fulcrum is God and wisdom. Your mileage may vary. But there’s one last thing...

A lever and fulcrum can move the world, under the right conditions, but you still have to be willing to use them. You have to decide, and act on that decision. You have to make the effort.

It has to be you who takes charge and chooses, who decides that boulder has got to go.

---

Kevin Tumlinson is a bestselling and award-winning author. He is currently traveling the United States with his wife, Kara, and their little dog, Mini, experiencing #VanLife as Kevin writes and publishes from the road. Follow the adventure at AuthorOnTheRoad.com.

Have you ever been to the Cosmos Mystery Area in South Dakota? Place is trippy! I remember learning about it when I was really young, on that old 80s show That’s Incredible. If you ever get a chance, go! It’s fun, and a fairly inexpensive, family friendly way to spend an afternoon!

#3PiecesOfWisdom 05 October 2020:

• If you’re looking for your purpose, you’ll find it in the decisions you make and the experiences you pursue.

• Good days come from good decisions.

• You can decide by default or decide on purpose.

Old Books and Big Magic

Yesterday I revisited a stand-alone book I wrote years ago, doing a bit of editing that’s been needed since the book was published. I’m considering expanding it into a series, so this was the first step toward that.

It’s kind of amazing to look back at early work.

This particular book was experimental and a little difficult to place into a genre. Its origins are kind of incredible, though, and I’m proud of it. It also happens to be one of the books that got the most buzz, when I first released it.

Still, I haven’t looked at it in years.

But looking at it now, with so many more books under my belt, it’s been kind of amazing. I’m seeing a lot of early stylistic choices that I’ve outgrown. I’m seeing mistakes I no longer make (and some I still make).

I think going back to this book is going to be good for me.

That’s sort of the same reason you might consider writing a daily journal. It’s a way to record a slice of who you were, on a given day, so you can compare with who you are in this moment. It’s a way to mark growth, like those little lines your mom drew on your bedroom door.

Being able to see who we were helps us see who we are.

The trick is, don’t linger in the past. Don’t long for it, until you feel as if you’ve lost something.

The past moved on for a reason. Clinging to it will only mar it. You’ll get it dirty, and lose the beauty of it.

What was is golden, but what is will always be the biggest magic.

Even if you aren’t fond of now, this is the only moment you have to do real good in the world, to find real joy. This moment is the only one you’re empowered to work in.

Now is your moment.

Sometimes now stinks. But that’s just a sign. Find the threads of joy, of productivity, of empowerment, and now becomes a launch pad for the good in the next moment.

It’s how reality works. We think it’s immutable, but the truth is we change it with every single moment.

Mr. Rushmore, in South Dakota—a place I honestly never expected to see for myself.

Kara and I are in South Dakota, near Hot Springs. Yesterday we took a little drive to Rapid City, and even managed to swing by Mt. Rushmore. We didn’t spend much time there, and we’ll be going back, but the drive in and out was amazing and inspiring. Look for more about this… I can’t help but write about it!

As of today, I’m trying something new. Each morning I write “3 Pieces of Wisdom” in my little pocket notebook, and I share them with a hashtag on Twitter. Awhile back, I started writing a thread with each post, just free-writing my thoughts on this or that. I’ve thought about making those a daily blog post, and I’m finally pulling the trigger on it.

So I hope you enjoy this. The format may or may not change as I go, but I think this is pretty much “it.” Take a read of it, and feel free to leave a comment and let me know your own thoughts. I’d love to hear them!

#3PiecesOfWisdom 01 October 2020:

• Imagination is your reality starter kit.

• Where you are is just as important as where you are going.

• Any advice or wisdom you have, give it to yourself first.

Probably my favorite photo of me and Kara to date.

Spent Ink and Empty Notebooks

I had to replace the ink cartridge in my pen, before writing today’s journal entry. The event always seems holy and precious to me. The retirement of one cartridge, the initiation of a new one—it’s a rite of passage.

I get kind of nostalgic, thinking about all the words written.

The same sort of thing happens when I write the final page in one of my Moleskine notebooks. Jotting down that last idea, that last lesson learned, I have a sense of pride and accomplishment. Also a sense of sadness. Something good is ending.

But then I open up a new Moleskine, crack open that fresh notebook to a crisp, new, empty page, and that’s when I have the excitement of a new beginning. I dream and wonder over what I’ll write, in the 200 or so pages ahead.

It’s old wisdom: Every ending is a new beginning.

Journaling is something I’ve done most of my life, although a lot of it was sporadic, lots of starts and stops. Thanks, twenties.

But I’ve kept it up enough to have mountains of notebooks. Mostly pocket Moleskines.

And some entries are awful, by the way. Angry. Poorly written. Angst-filled and melodramatic. At times I’ve written awful things about people I love. Or about myself.

But then I’ve written wonderful things. Kind and loving. Inspired and inspirational. Wise, even.

I’ve always had a hang up about claiming my own wisdom. I still do. It feels immodest, and in addition there’s the whole Dunning-Krueger thing. I may not know as much as I think I know.

Ah, well.

You can be wise and arrogant, or clueless, or over-confident. Wisdom is sneaky.

Wisdom is a treasure that hides in plain sight, and can be found and expressed by literally anyone. We hear wise things come from the mouths of children we love, and from people we despise. We can even hear it from ourselves... maybe in old journals.

Sneaky, sneaky.

So the point there is to listen, never discount someone as a fool, not worth paying attention to. You’ll sometimes need to use discernment to find the wisdom, to sift it from the chaff of idiocy. But it’s probably there.

We’ll talk about discernment some other time, if you like.

Kara and I are finally on the road, and out of Houston. Out of Texas, too... and that felt like a big step.

Since we started this, back in May 2020, we’ve been full-time in a travel trailer and now a van, but the furthest we’d gone until now was Kerrville, Texas. It was beautiful in the Texas Hill Country, and far enough from where we started that it gave us a minute to breathe and get used to the idea. But it was still Texas—and that meant it still felt like being close to shore. 

Going back to Houston was similar. We had to do it—there were things we needed to take care of. Doctor’s appointments, storage units, family time... the reasons were stacked. And that last one, family time, was really the most important. It was a little like taking in gulps of air before you go into the deep end of the pool. We are so close to our family, and depend on them so much, we wanted to make sure we had that time with them before we left for the next few months.

So the Houston layover was necessary and wonderful. It also gave us the chance to give the van a proper shakedown, get things set up exactly as we wanted and needed, move things in and out between the van and storage. It was adjustment time, and it helped a lot. We got used to living in the van while sticking close to our comfort zone—help being just a hop away. 

But once we had things worked out, we couldn’t wait for roll-out day to get here. And when it came, we were ready. Maybe a little nervous... but ready.

This morning, the second morning on our journey away from Houston, represents our first morning outside of Texas. We’ve found ourselves in an RV park on the Mississippi River, in Memphis. It’s a bit more rustic than places we’ve stayed to date, and that’s taking a little bit of adjustment. It’s showing us how to depend on the amenities we bring with us, rather than those provided by an RV resort. 

We’re starting to see what works, what doesn’t, what can be done and should not be done. Day two, and we’re already picking up on lessons.

The thing is, as I’m sitting here surrounded by trees and green, the Mississippi off to my left, the sights, sounds, and smells of campground life all around me, I’m realizing just how worth it all this is. Tight quarters, occasional tiffs with the spouse, bugs and heat and humidity, aching backs from long drives... a little discomfort here and there, just to remind us that things aren’t perfect and breezy all the time, when it comes to #VanLife. But then there’s... something. Something that’s a little tough to articulate. But I’m going to try.

There’s a minute. A moment. A breath. A pause in everything, at which point I do nothing but observe and experience. And then...

This morning I was thinking about patience. I’m a praying sort of fellow, so I prayed, “God, what would it take for me to learn more patience?” And God wasted no time in answering me. I got a scratch on my eye, I got into a little tiff with Kara over nothing, I stepped out of the van to high humidity and bugs out for a nibble, and I sat in a spot where the sun has decided to linger, making seeing my laptop with my scratched eye all the more challenging. 

And here comes that pause... here comes that moment... here’ comes that presence. 

It’s the moment I look up and see that the sun that’s making my screen hard to see is also making the trees across the way glow green and inviting. It’s the moment when I see an ant crawl across my laptop and I try to gently blow it off, so I don’t harm it, and the little guy clings and curls up and holds on, showing me how determined and powerful even the smallest life can be. It’s the instant when I sip my coffee and listen to my music and hear the sounds of birds and feel the breeze, I prop my feet up on the little foot stool, and I do this work I love—writing and crafting stories—work I absolutely love doing, so much so that I’ll do it even on a lazy Sunday, with the Mississippi off to my left and a forest off to my right. 

It’s the moment when I recognize that the “negative” parts of the journey are still a part of the journey, and it’s the parts I focus on that define my experience. It’s the interpretation of the events that defines my mood. It’s the acceptance of what is, and the choice to let it be with no judgement from me, that opens the door to joy, moment by moment. 

Presence is a principle tenant of Zen. And Zen, for those who may think of it as froo-froo-woo-woo, is an ancient and quite respectable practice of choosing your response to each moment with care, rather than choosing to deal with the consequences and fallout that follow simply reacting. 

Choose how you respond, rather than allow your mood and experience to be dictated by a default reaction. 

Take nothing that happens as a personal slight, but be personal in your response.

Be present in the moment, rather than lamenting, resentful that the moment isn’t what you’d prefer it to be. 

Be here and now (present and aware) rather than shouldering the burden of the past (regret and resentment) or projecting yourself into the future (worry and anxiety).

Van Life has been a wonderful tool for encouraging a Zen practice in my own life. 

I’m learning to live with fewer possessions. 

I’m learning to be aware of my immediate environment and the impact I have on it, both in terms of the physical environment and in terms of my relationships, with strangers and with Kara and even with our little dog, Mini.

I’m learning to leave as small footprint as possible wherever we go—considering what we use and how we use it, how to get more out of what we must use, and how to use less.

I’m learning to think  of consumerism in terms of our actual needs rather than our wants. 

I’m learning to spend time on what is important, rather than letting the unimportant run the show.

I’m learning to slow down, to be attentive, to be observant, to learn from what I see and hear and experience, rather than simply passing through it, unchanged. 

I’m learning to complain less.

I’m learning to care more. 

There are a lot of lessons ahead, on this journey. I won’t be able to anticipate them all. But here we are, only a month in on van life, three months in on full-time RV life, and I’ve already learned a lifetime of wisdom from the experience. It’s already changing me. 

I’m excited about what’s to come, and what it will teach us. I’m encouraged by the people we’ve met so far on this journey, and the experiences we’ve had. Here we are, in the middle of a pandemic, and reminded of death and misery and injustice and division with every news broadcast and every social media post, and yet I feel like we are living in complete freedom for the first time in our lives. 

It has less to do with the “van” part of van life than it has to do with the “life” part. 

No matter what the world looks like, no matter what it appears to be, life is right here with you. 

It’s you who chooses. You who can either respond or react.

You don’t need the road to live. Your journey is a path you make yourself, with your choices and your own innate, honored wisdom. 

See you out there.

When Kara and I envisioned van life, it was all about road trips. We loved the idea of having our home with us, having a way to use the restroom, prepare a meal, take a nap, watch some TV, get a good night’s sleep—just somewhere other than where we always were. It’s been like that for about a month now, honestly. In fact, we’re two days shy of a month in the van. 

But we’re still in Houston.

So that was not something we envisioned. In fact, being in Houston in the Summer was something we were adamantly opposed to. If you’ve never been here, the breakdown is it’s hot, it’s humid, it’s twice as hot and humid as you were probably just imagining, and the closer you get to Houston, proper, the more allergy and lung issues you tend to have. Also, super more hot and humid than you’re imagining. 

The thought of weathering that heat and humidity in the travel trailer was bad enough, but doing it in the van seemed like a nightmare. And, to be honest, combatting those conditions has been a challenge. Our AC has run non-stop, and it’s proven inadequate to keeping things “crispy cool.” We end up having to idle the engine and run the in-dash AC for a couple of hours each day, to keep things below the high 80s to 90s.

We’re working on some solutions—like reflective screens for the windows. But that just means carrying something that takes up more space, requires more setup and breakdown, and blocks our view of the outside.

Or... we could go someplace where we can actually be outside without bursting into flames a la Dracula on beach day. 

We’ll get there. We’re just having to spend some time in Houston for a bit longer, get a few more doctor visits done, get a few more packages delivered, get a few more items moved in and/or out of storage.

That’s been an interesting and (admittedly) fun challenge: Getting things right.

For the most part, the van has everything we need. All our basic needs can be met, as long as we keep the reserve tank full of water and some food in the fridge. But as with society and culture as a whole, in our microcosm of existence, once you’ve met basic needs it’s time to start tinkering to increase the comfort, utility, and aesthetics of your environment. 

So for the past month, Kara and I have made some upgrades and tweaks. For example, we got foam mattresses with down toppers to go on top of the stiff cushions that came with the van. We’ve bought nice-looking quilts that add some color and visual interest, while also adding to our sleep comfort. We had the stiff back cushions that came with the van cut down so that they were narrower, and therefore not blocking our walking path as much (BONUS: I can also use one as a lap desk while I’m sitting on my bed).

To give us a little more fridge space, we bought a 12-volt-powered cooler fridge where we keep drinks and other items. It can be used as either a fridge or a freezer, and we have it hovering a little between the two. That’s handy, but it also doubles as a bench where I can sit and pull on socks and shoes in the morning. 

When we were in the travel trailer, we had two little USB fans that worked great, and stayed at our bedside. In the van, they’ve been a little more challenging to use. We don’t have “bedsides” anymore. But I was able to find two battery powered, USB-charged fans that have flexible tripods, allowing us to put them anywhere—even hang them from the cabinets above us so we can have a little more airflow during the day.

The van came with window coverings for the front, but they were bulky and didn’t help keep the heat out much. So I ordered a set of Heatshield reflective shades, custom fit for the Ford Transit. Those have made a huge difference, especially when combined with the existing screens. 

We’ve made some improvements outside the van as well. Since there’s no under-carriage storage, the way there has been in our previous RVs, we bought a StowAway hitch-mounted “trunk” to keep our camp chairs, outdoor stove, and hoses and power cables in. It’s worked out perfectly, especially with little wheel-hub organizers I have for our cables and hoses. 

But the thing I’m most proud of, outside the van, is that I installed quick-disconnects on the water inlet valves. In fact, if it involves water, going in or out of the coach, I have a quick-connect adapter on it. Thanks to this I’m able to set up or break down the whole thing in a few minutes—very handy for van life. We can go from over-nighting at an RV park to being on the road in under 10 minutes. Under 5 if I don’t have to refill the water reserves or empty the black and grey tanks. 

These modifications have been fun. They’re the kind of thing I seem to enjoy most about this lifestyle. I like thinking about ways to improve something, and then improving it. I’m carrying some basic tools with me—hand tools like a hammer, wrenches, sockets, pliers, screwdrivers, but also a battery-powered drill and saw. And, of course, my Swiss Army knife, the ultimate go-to tool. And with all of these, as compact as they are, I can do many things.

The key is to be able to think in terms of repurposing and using whatever you have to solve whatever problem comes up. I’m pretty handy, and can fix practically anything. My engineering background comes out, from time to time. But anyone can do this, if they’re willing to rethinking what they have and how it can be used. 

I used to love those little thought experiments where someone would give you and object and you had to think of as many ways to use it, aside from its intended purpose, as you possibly could, in just a few minutes. I still do that sort of thing on my own today. You should try it—it’s a great way to sharpen your creative problem solving skills.

As we move deeper into van life, I can already see that there will be challenges and issues and problems. It’s the nature of the thing. We live in a house that suffers a 5.0 earthquake every time we get on the road—stuff happens. And there will certainly be problems I can’t solve on my own, or can’t solve immediately. It’s the way it is.

But what I love most about van life is not only the challenge of solving those problems, but also the challenge of finding new and better ways to do things. I love having to think about everything I have with me—how many ways can it be used? Do I have something that could serve these two purposes, so that I don’t have to bring two different items? Can I make this thing work for that purpose, and leave that thing behind? 

I love it. I think it’s the way we all should think and operate. There’s something to be said for “the right tool for the job,” but there’s also something to be said for “don’t use a lack of tools as an excuse to not do the job.”

This is the stuff that makes a nomadic life fun.

Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling author, podcast host, and content creator. Follow Kevin and his adventures while traveling and writing by visiting AuthorOnTheRoad.com.

Kara and I are back in the Houston area, where we’ve been doing some... shifting. 

First, we came back to the area primarily to get to our three storage units, in an effort to consolidate them down to one. This turned out to be a little impractical—we still own a lot of stuff.

It’s a “problem” we’ve been dealing with for awhile now, but it’s become more prominent as we’ve stared making a move to be more minimalist in how we live. And I put “problem” in quotes because, when it comes down to it, having a bunch of stuff crammed into a storage unit isn’t that big of a deal. We’re just like millions of other Americans. More wealth than we can carry with us. 

But it’s quote-problem-quote because we’re aiming for that more minimalist approach to living. There’s something we’ve discovered, since getting on the road, that makes having multiple storage units—or even a single storage unit—a quote-problem-quote. It has less to do with the stuff and more to do with what the stuff means to us.

Those storage units contain a lot of old memories. Nostalgia, in some cases. But in others it’s just... weight. 

As I was moving around furniture and crates and boxes, I made a joke I’ve made before: “Why is everything we own heavy?”

There’s a sutra in that question. 

As Kara and I have transitioned to living full time out of a small space, forced to travel light because we simply can’t carry everything with us, it’s started to dawn on us that the less we have to be concerned about, physically, the less concerned we feel, psychologically. The weight of all that stuff starts to slough off, and we start to feel free. 

That’s one of the reasons we’ve ended up spending more time messing around with the storage units than we first intended. We’re starting to look at “owning things” in a new way. For one, we’re starting to realize that for awhile now it’s our stuff that’s owned us, not the other way around.

Case in point: We’re paying for three storage units, to house a bunch of stuff that is a mix of things we care about and things that we don’t. We’re paying money for it to sit there, unused. Most of it we’ve wanted to replace or dispose of for a long while. 

So... joke’s on us.  Our stuff has us right where it wants us.

When we first got back to Houston I took a week off to just start ploughing through the bigger of the three storage units, with the goal of emptying it entirely. It was harder than I anticipated, because all that stuff kept reminding me of reasons to keep it. “You might need this thingy some day. Wouldn’t this doohickey be handy under the right circumstances? This is a jigamabob that you got from person X... you wouldn’t want them to think you’re ungrateful!”

I’m a contingency kind of guy. Call it Boy Scout preparedness—I like to keep resources handy, just in case. Tools, materials, equipment, you name it. I still have junk I picked up in my teens.

So many things I own are there for contingencies.

The trouble is, those contingencies rarely happen. And though it’s nice to have a few things on hand that I can use to solve problems, it’s a rare day indeed when I need to dig through The Box of Many Wires and retrieve that old cable that I kept from a gaming system I haven’t had since 1992.

So, tough as it was, Kara and I started making the hard decisions, and letting a lot of our stuff go.

Donation bins are currently bulging with my contingency items, as well as clothes and shoes I don’t have room for, tools I have in triplicate, video equipment that hasn’t worked since the first President Bush was in office, and so forth. 

We managed to cull things down from three storage units to just two.

That may not sound like a huge leap forward, but it did wonders for taking some of the weight off of our shoulders. It’s a good start. And it really is just that—a start. Our plan is to come back periodically and do more clearing in the storage units, until one day, finally, we should be rid of a second one. And then, maybe, we’ll try downsizing the third one. I’d love to get that pile down to about half the size of one of those units. 

To be sure, there are things we’ll always hold on to. Kara’s grandmother left us some very nice antique furniture that we want to put in a forever home some day. I have certain studio gear that I want to use in that same home, in a dedicated studio space. There are various items that have nostalgic value for us. But if we are honest and diligent with culling this stuff down, I think we’ll find ourselves feeling less weighted down by it. 

Less mental weight to slow us down as we travel through the world and experience life. Less weight to hold me back as I write and produce more books and content.  That’s just good for everyone. 

And as a part of going more minimalist... we’re downsizing our living space.

A little over a week ago we took a leap and traded the truck and travel trailer for a travel van.

Effectively, we cut our living in space in half, meaning we have to carry even less with us as we travel the US. 

#VanLife

The people who know about this already have been surprised and, I think, a little delighted by the move. It’s tough to figure out, I know. We had a hard time envisioning this at first ourselves.  But now...

So the progression was to first sell our four-bedroom, 2500 square-foot home and moving into a one-bedroom apartment. Then we moved into a 38-foot motorhome. Then we moved back into a two-bedroom apartment, then to a three-bedroom apartment. And then we downsized back into a travel trailer. And now we’re living in a van that has roughly 120 square-feet of living space.

Go figure. 

Downsizing has definitely forced us to be more minimalist, but it’s also forced us to be more creative with what we do carry. Everything has to serve more than one purpose, for example. Things also have to be moved from place to place in what my friend Joe Russo calls “the van shuffle.” (See Joe & Kait Russo’s own van life/camper life adventures at https://weretherussos.com). It’s a bit of work, and a huge shift in mindset. But it’s... well, it’s oddly fun. And, even better, it’s oddly freeing. 

We live in this tiny space, but our lives just got a lot bigger. 

I’ll be covering more about van life and our adventures on the road in future posts, as we learn and grow into this. But Kara and I are excited about all of this. And Mini, despite pouting a little at first, has gotten into her own groove. 

We’re living smaller and it’s making our lives so much larger. I can’t wait to see where we grow from here. 

Buckhorn Lake RV Resort | Kerrville, Texas

When Kara and I first decided we were going to do this—live in a tiny travel trailer full time and move around in the country for a year or two—we had what I figure are the usual daydreams. I pictured us parking lakeside, the mountains in view on the horizon, trees forming a canopy overhead. I like being in spots where there are people, so in my head there were always families around. Kids riding bikes, swimming, paddling in canoes. 

And if it was a holiday—say, Independence Day here in the US—maybe there was some kind of fireworks show. People would grill outside, the smells would be wonderful. The atmosphere would be “endless summer.”

I know you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop...

But I have to say, most of that list gets a check, here at Buckhorn Lake RV Resort.

Ok, swap Texas hills for mountains, and the Guadalupe river and some creeks and waterfalls for the lake. Our spot doesn’t have much tree cover, but there’s a little.  But the kids and families are all around us, riding bikes and playing games and swimming in the pool. It’s definitely “endless summer.” 

4th of July Fireworks at Buckhorn Lake RV Resort

And as for the 4th of July—wow. 

These folks put on a heck of a show! In fact, they do the whole thing right, from the ground up. The day was filled with the smell of outdoor grilling, people were festive and enjoying themselves. There was a golf cart parade, followed by a Frito pie lunch, and later a delivered-to-your-door rib dinner that included the best watermelon I’ve had in a long while. And that evening, there was an ice cream social, leading up to a massive fireworks display. People cheered. It was... moving.

Before anyone gets too worked up, you should know that there was appropriate social distancing throughout. Frankly, that’s the way things are in places like this. People like each other, but we’re all here to spend time with our families, and we like to do our socializing from a comfortable distance. RV life may be the best form of social distancing there is.

We’ve been here in Kerrville, at Buckhorn Lake, since late May. This morning, as I write this, it’s our last full day here. I have to say, I’m going to miss it. 

Things have gotten so painful and frightening out in the world, Kara and I worried briefly if this plan to get on the road was gong to be nixed. We worried that we’d get out here and meet with nothing but suspicion and road blocks. We came out of an environment of fear, and we did worry that it would continue. 

But here, a lot of that worry and stress fell away.

Day one in Kerrville, Texas

I think part of it is just having the ability to move around a little, and see some of the world we haven’t yet seen. But I also think there’s an element of facing your fears in this. We grew afraid, for a minute, but getting out here showed us there was less to be worried about than we’d thought. 

Any new adventure comes with its risks and it’s worries. Things can go wrong. But that’s the point of adventure, when you stopped to consider it. Part of the fun is that it’s not always fun. Part of the joy of it is that you sometimes have to solve problems and figure things out.

Something I’ve learned about RV life is that it requires you to be continuously present and strategic. It forces you to consider everything you do.

If Kara and I are boon docking, we have only so much water onboard, and so much capacity for things like grey water and black water. We’ll eventually have to dump the tanks, and refill the reserves. So we have to be conscious and aware of that. 

The same goes for propane—we depend on it for everything from heating our water to cooking our food to running a generator, if it’s needed. We have three 15-pound tanks onboard, so we have to monitor that.

Our capacity to store food is limited by the size of our pantry and our refrigerator, so we have to be aware of those spaces. We’re also trying to eat healthier, so we have to consider all options there, and that turns out to not be so easy. What are our food staples? What’s a true must-have, and what can we do without? 

Same with clothes and belongings. I have a tiny little closet with a little hanging shelf system, and that’s where all my stuff goes. I have a backpack that contains all of my gear and equipment, and that’s shoved into a little nook under my side of the bed. My tools are in a little slide-out drawer in the outside storage bay, and I only have room for some essentials. We’re utilizing the bed of the truck, protected by a rolling bed cover, as a “garage” for things like chairs, bikes, and the generator.

We also have to think ahead on things like where we’re going next, whether there’s an RV campground we can stay in, or whether we need to go off-grid for a bit. What’s in town, and how close is town anyway? And, very important for us, is there good mobile internet coverage in the area? Is there a way to get online so we can do our work? 

There’s a lot to consider. A lot more than what we ever had to keep track of when we owned a house or rented an apartment. Basically, this little camper is our ticket to seeing more of the world, but it requires that we take 100% responsibility for keeping all the pieces moving. 

Then there’s the pandemic...

I almost hate writing about this, but it’s not a complete picture until I bring it up. 

Here in Kerrville, just an hour outside of San Antonio, things have been pretty well balanced. We still see signs of the pandemic here—masks, little signs on shop doors, X marks taped at six-foot “social distancing” intervals on sidewalks, etc. But I’ve been very happy to see that people are still living their lives. There aren’t very many instances of people flipping out over wearing or not wearing masks. None, in fact, since we’ve been here. People just do what they do, and let others do what they’re going to do. As it should be.

But there’s been a key shift in my thinking, when it comes to all of this. We are currently embarking on a new reality. Some of us don’t like it much, but that’s kind of irrelevant. This is our reality now, and for the foreseeable future. It’s our culture. And like it or not, we have to accept it for what it is. 

Once we accept reality, though, we can start working to change it. 

That’s the part people tend to forget. Accepting what is—reality—doesn’t mean you can’t work to change it.

This has been a tough and difficult lesson for me, but I finally get it. You can spend all your energy fighting and rejecting reality, and come away exhausted and with no wins. Or you can accept that this is how things are, and then use that energy to start doing something to change it, to make it better. 

That’s one of the lessons I’m taking away from this experience, getting on the road and living in Kerrville, Texas, for the past couple of months. There are two things, really:

One—life is sweeter, and we notice it more, are more present in it, if we take full responsibility for it and consider everything that needs to be considered. When our lives depend on each choice we make, we live our lives more fully. 

Two—fighting reality is a losing battle. Accepting reality doesn’t mean you lose. Accept reality and start working to change it, and you will win by default. Create something good in the world, and you win. 

And maybe three—it’s all just that simple.

Definitely going to miss this place

As we round things off here in the Texas Hill Country, and prepare for the next hop in this Author on the Road experience, I’m really happy to take away some good lessons. I’m happy that I’m seeing some growth in my life. I’m happy that it’s having a positive effect on every aspect of my life.

I’m writing more. I’m creating more content. I’m finding myself to be more positive, and feeling more free and liberated. 

This has been a good trip. I know that there will be times when things aren’t as sweet, aren’t as fun. But to start our journey, I can’t think of a better beginning. Kara, Mini, and I have all been very happy this past couple of months, and we’re looking forward to the next round.

And I can’t wait to bring you along with us.

Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling author and content creator. He and his wife, Kara, travel full time with their little dog, Mini, visiting places across the US that inspire Kevin’s writing. You can follow Kevin and Kara on their journey at AuthorOnTheRoad.com.

Kara wanted to know how I research my books

That’s a difficult question to answer because it sort of implies that I have a consistent methodology to fall back on. And in some sense, I guess I do. But for the most part, my research is kind of organic and, at times, random.

Basically, I pants the research, just like I pants the writing.

I rarely come to a new book with an idea fully formed.  Most of the time, what I have is a title. I think of a great title, and then I start writing a story that fits. It may seem kind of strange, but it’s how I’ve done this for years now—title, then story.

Occasionally, I’ll come up with a title after the story, but that’s usually more along the lines of, “This would make a much better title.”

A lot of times, the title comes to me after I’ve read or seen something that inspires me. For example, The Devil’s Interval was inspired by some reading I’d been doing, in which that phrase was used and defined. I started doing some spot research into it, but the phrase just really clicked with me. It sounded intriguing. It sounded like a thriller title. So... it became one.

For that book, I spent time looking into the history of the thing, and that led me down a few rabbit trails. At that time, I was still trying to make every book fit the “out of place history” theme (something I still do, but not as heavy-handed as when I first started). I’d been combining bits and pieces of disparate history to create intriguing and interesting stories, and when I learned that Sir Isaac Newton had done some work with sound, it seemed like a perfect fit.

I still think that it was.

Research from there went mostly straight to Google and Wikipedia. I started reading up on ways that sound could be used for all sorts of insane things—from cutting glass to performing brain surgery. And the idea of a tone that could influence human behavior—which, in a sense, is what a “devil’s interval” is—was very interesting to me. I’d been reading about marketing agencies using target audio projection to advertise to specific people as they moved through a crowd, and things just started to tumble into place.

That idea, by the way, is scary as hell to me. Can you imagine walking along and being recognized by some AI, which then transmits a signal that only you can hear, just to try to convince you to go buy a Rolex? No thanks.

For the locations in that book, I relied on a combination of analogous extrapolation, in which I drew on details from my own experiences and travels, and Google Maps.

I know it may sound like a cheat—but being able to “walk around” in a location via Google Maps has been a profound game-changer for authors. I’ve done some world travel, but I haven’t quite been everywhere. And even if I have been to a city, I may not have explored it so thoroughly that I can write about it at length. So being able to put myself into a space, virtually, and see it from the street level, is invaluable.

The other resource I fall back on quite a bit is YouTube.

Not to give Google all the credit for my research, but they really do have some winners. YouTube may be my favorite tool of all time, for learning about and doing a deep dive into just about any topic I can imagine. I can get walk-thrus of locations, experience some of the local color, the sounds, the people, the whole thing. I can learn skills, pick up history, and get some details that you can’t necessarily get from reading a book or article.

Those things, along with the books and articles I do read, are profound influences on the work. I can get some surface-level insight, and then go as deep as I need to through other means.

When possible, I do like to actually visit the places I write about. In Coelho Medallion, for example, I wrote about Pueblo, Colorado, and a half dozen other places I’ve visited. In books like The Antarctic Forgery, though I’ve never been to the Antarctic, I was able to include details about locations I have been to, which added to the feeling of authenticity.

Aside from the travelogue stuff, though, I write about a lot of historical events and artifacts. Much of this research happens organically, as I’m exposed to books, articles, television shows, and videos. I will often find a book or two on a topic I plan to write about and read it even as I’m doing the writing. It helps get me into the right headspace, and I will sometimes loop back through what I’ve written to fold in details I’ve learned.

All of that plays a part in researching each book. But I should make it clear that what I’m writing isn’t necessarily dependent on deep dives into historical facts. A large percentage of what I write about is purely made up.

I’m not writing research papers. I’m writing fiction. And though thriller readers do love to know that they’re getting some actual facts in their fiction, sometimes I diverge from reality and create a whole new mythos.

The secret to doing this successfully, I’ve determined, is to present enough actual historical fact, as accurately as you can, so that the made-up historical facts ring true.

In The Girl in the Mayan Tomb, every word I wrote about Apuch or Viracocha or the Mayans, in general, was true. These were facts derived from my research, which actually spanned the course of half a year. But the bits about a virus, the existence of a modern-day death cult that still worshiped Apuch, and pretty much anything associated with Kotler deciphering Mayan glyphs to find a lost vault of treasure... yeah, I made all of that up. Fiction writers, am I right?

This isn’t some kind of betrayal or scam. It’s just the way fiction works. To make it feel authentic and plausible, to help suspend disbelief for the reader, we writers sometimes mingle fact and fiction to create a hybrid, with a story we can more tightly control.

I have, at times, been accused of being too “surface level” with my facts. Or, as one reviewer put it, I “presented a Wikipedia level of knowledge” about a topic.

Yes. This is true. I mean, I use more than Wikipedia to do my research, but I’d say that most of my stories dip only about that far into historical fact.

Because they’re fiction stories, not research papers.

Believe me, I know the difference. I’ve written at length on a variety of topics in the course of my career. I’ve done quite a bit of in-depth research into things that would, frankly, make most people prefer to have their brains boiled. I know how to dig deeper.

But for my work, there’s usually no need.

Research is something that has become a fun part of what I do. It’s relaxing, in its way. It’s an excuse to read a book, or visit a museum, or tour a historic site. It’s an excuse to join an archaeological dig or interview a series of experts.

I do all of these things. I just don’t do all of them every time.

Research has essentially become a constant activity in my life when it comes down to it. I never actually stop. It’s happening all the time, all around me.

So maybe I don’t have a consistent methodology.

But I do have methods.

Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling author of thrillers, sci-fi, fantasy, and more. You can find Kevin and his work at authorontheroad.com

Kara and I are on the road, trying something brand new, and seeing where it takes us

Date: June 7, 2020 at 7:19:19 AM CDT

Weather: 66°F Partly Cloudy

Location: Kerrville, Texas, United States

I'm outside as usual—something I've been doing in the mornings for the past few days here. And I have my laptop, as usual. And coffee, phone, all the Kevin official accessories. I forgot my Moleskine journal inside, but I may incorporate that into this a bit later. I'm trying out a new Sunday routine.

I decided that instead of working on the current book, I would take a moment to write a journal entry about my experience so far, as we get into this journey—something I can share with people who may be curious. And a way to chronicle what we're doing.

Kara and I moved into the camper full time a little over a week ago. At that time, we pulled into a spot in Arcola, Texas, not far from where we'd been staying with my in-laws. 

The spot in Arcola was a quiet, kind of cute RV park where most people were either full-time residents or were there working the pipelines. Of all the parks in that immediate area, it was by far the nicest—but it was still a sort of transient place. A layover kind of place.

It was good, though. It was a minute for us to catch our breath and start organizing the camper, preparing for what was to come. 

For about four days, Kara and I hung out in Arcola as we organized, modified, repaired, and rethought what we were bringing with us. And in that time, we also had to do the "day jobs," doing work for Draft2Digital, including a live stream that didn't go so hot, and all the usual stuff our jobs entail.

I also had to keep up with my writing, and I'm happy to report I did so with no problem. Usually, major changes in my routine are followed by a lull in the writing, but I think I've had so many of those in the past three months, moving into the camper didn't impact me as much.

I'm pretty proud of that, actually. We managed to uproot or lives and get into a new space and get it ready to go, and never really missed a beat on the work we had to do. That's good because the point of all of this is to carry on with what needs doing while exploring a new way of living. 

I will admit to feeling some anxiety during all this, however.

It's become a sort of chronic problem these days, that I'll feel this gnawing anxiety inside, nagging at me over what could happen, over all the changes and adjustments, over the disruption to routines, over all the unknowns. 

And all the questions...

Am I overlooking or forgetting something? Am I assuming one thing when the reality is another? What happens if this breaks or that stops working or this thing catches fire? Will we die?!?

Little questions like that. 

What I'm realizing, slowly, is that this is part of the process. And eventually, it starts to ease. 

I cling to that thought. 

It helps, I think, that I've started framing all of this in a new light: I am on a journey of healing.

This move to camper life is meant to give Kara and me a chance to push ourselves a little, and to explore the world outside of our usual four walls. It's meant to give me some inspiration for the writing and to give us both a chance to breathe and grow and heal. 

Kara and I have been working toward this whole thing for months. Years, really, when you start thinking about our first RV-life journey. We learned a lot on that first tour—mostly that things can go pear-shaped real fast. That could be why this move to the camper is triggering some old standby anxieties.

For years now, I've suffered from this weird anxiety that first came up during a job I had and hated. I won't go into details, but I will say that there were moments when I would wake up in the middle of the night, wondering if it would be better if I just stopped being. Died, maybe. Or went into a coma. Or just blinked out of existence when the Large Hadron Collider came online. 

It was a dark time.

I never had thoughts of suicide, never wanted to end things myself. I just got to this point where if it happened, I was ok with it. Maybe even welcomed it. 

Like I said... dark times. 

That was several years ago, and since then, I've gotten much better. I got healthier, got more hopeful, and started writing more. I also started making a point of helping other people as much as possible. You'd be amazed just how much helping others can help you.

So I'm better. No more thoughts of "when will this end?" I'm healthier than ever and feeling good. 

But I still have a sort of PTSD, I think. 

I still suddenly find myself in a dark funk, where I don't want to die, but I wouldn't mind walking away from everything and living as a hermit in the woods somewhere, surviving off of rainwater and food scavenged from the dumpsters of the rich, all while scrawling a manifesto decrying consumerism and the daily encroachment on our civil liberties by an overbearing government.

At least it's progress. 

But the point is that in moments of stress and extreme change and facing the unknown, I start feeling that anxiety niggling its way into my chest and my guts. I start feeling like something is so very wrong, I might die. I feel adrenalized. I feel like withdrawing. 

The way I'm dealing with that anxiety these days is by getting out and getting a little sun and exercise, and doing things with my hands. I fix things, or I modify things. I use tools. I solve problems. I take walks. 

Kara has picked up on this. "I think you need to fix something," she says. 

Of course, while I'm fixing things, I'm usually cursing like a sailor. It's cathartic. But foul-mouthed. 

Luckily, if you need something to fix or modify, living in a camper will give that to you in large supply. There is no end to the things that need tinkering with. It could become a full-time job. 

Likewise, camper life is also very conducive to getting out and taking walks, getting a little exercise and sun. 

It's a slower version of life, from what I'm used to. More... wholesome. But definitely slower.

At first, this drove me nuts. It still does, sometimes. I'm used to us going on road trips and vacations and getting into go-go-go-do-do-do mode. 

What's next? What do we explore now? We have to hurry! We only have X days of vacation left!

But this isn't a vacation. This is our life.

Don't get me wrong; it's kind of relaxing. It's nice, being able to slow the pace and have things to explore during our off hours. But we still have our work, and still have our responsibilities. We just also have a new front yard every so often, and a new set of things to check out when we're done working for the day. 

Right now, our life is in Kerrville, Texas. 

If you've never been to the Texas hill country, I recommend it. The scenery is beautiful. The weather is nice, even considering the oppressive heat of a Texas summer. I 'm able to sit out under our awning in the mornings and write without feeling like I'm being slow-cooked. And it's a friendly place. Everyone here is kind and smiling and happy. Probably because most of them are on vacation. 

This is home through the next month. We live here. And though there are a lot fewer amenities than we're used to—there isn't a Target within 70 miles of this place, and that makes Kara edgy—we're finding that we don't actually need most of those amenities anyway. We're good. 

And that's part of why this is a "healing journey" for me. 

For a long while, I've been locked into a sort of single-track way of thinking. I have goals. I have an agenda. I'm building something, career-wise. But I've spent so much of my time focused on that, I sometimes forget to just live. 

The PTSD-Anxiety thing kicks in and reminds me that I'm small. It reminds me that I need to play things safe, stick close to shore, make sure I don't get too comfortable, or too relaxed.

I've pushed through with that for a long while, but about three months ago, it all came to a head. It all finally took a toll.

I went to my cardiologist.

Now, I'm going to just say right up front that I'm fine now. But things got just a little scary for a bit there. 

I have a congenital heart defect. I've known about it since I was 38—so a little over nine years now. I have deformed aortic valve that contributed to an AV block, resulting in bradycardia. And that all led to the installation of Pacey. My loving pet name for the pacemaker that is currently keeping me alive. 

Again... I'm fine. Healthy, even. But during that last visit, I was told that I was on the verge. My weight, blood pressure, blood sugar and cholesterol were too high. I was too stressed. Too anxious. 

Something had to change and fast. 

So, it did. 

I cut the carbs, reduced the calories, started exercising more, and started doing things to relieve stress and anxiety. 

I can still be triggered, but I'm getting better. That's the point. 

That's the point of all of it.

Camper life is something new for us. But I think it may be exactly what I need. I think it may actually be the thing that helps me save my life. Because of this change, Kara and I are eating healthier—controlling what we eat, and what quantities we eat, by necessity. Campers are small.

We're exercising more because walking and swimming and hiking are things to do in a place that has fewer amenities. 

We're stressing less because as we solve problems and fix things, we're getting more comfortable with solving problems and fixing things. Things become less scary when you understand them better. 

We're only just starting this journey, and there will be stressful, anxious days to come, I know. But I'm already seeing health benefits from this, and I'm already feeling much better. Less anxious. Less afraid. More hopeful and brave. More excited about where we go from here. 

So I'm trying something new, and it's working. 

I can't wait to see where it takes us.

Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling author, traveling the US with his wife, Kara, and their little dog, Mini. You can find more about Kevin, including links to his thriller novels and other books, when you visit AuthorOnTheRoad.com.

TRANSCRIPT AVAILABLE BELOW!

Whatever your goals are, whatever you're trying to do with your life, there's that little blip of a moment where you hesitate, wondering if you're ready. You're ready.

Or you're not.

But you will be.

And the way you get there is to START. Here. Now. Right away. Even if the action you take is just some dive into trying it out or learning more about it, every action counts, and every action moves you forward.

Closer to your goal is the goal. So start, even if you're not ready. What I didn't mention is that "start before you ready" is a very stoic idea. I like stoicism as a philosophy, because it hinges on self-reliance and personal responsibility.

Very =Kevin.

Don't forget to like, subscribe, and share!

// If you liked this video, you might also find something you like at https://kevintumlinson.com Books, podcasts, videos—it's a crazy amount of content.

And you can get a FREE book if you join my mailing list at https://kevintumlinson.com/joinme

OTHER PARTS OF MY LIFE

If you've ever wanted to write and publish a novel or other book, I do a ton of work for the indie author/self-publishing community.

Here are some of the things I do:

• Wordslinger Podcast: http://wordslingerpodcast.com

• Draft2Digital: https://draft2digital.com/wordslinger

• Indie Author Blueprint: https://indieauthorblueprint.com

• Author.Email: https://author.email

TRANSCRIPT

SUMMARY KEYWORDS

marketing, writing, word, coffee shops, improve, learn, includes, editing process, slinger, hesitating, making, mark, focus, digital marketing, ironic, limiting, started, concentrate, photoshop, diving

SPEAKERS

Kevin Tumlinson

Kevin Tumlinson  00:09

6am this is about the time I roll out to my one of my coffee shops. I have to rotate coffee shops. Because if I go to the same coffee shop too often people start to recognize me. And then they want to talk and I don't mind talking and that's the problem.

Kevin Tumlinson  01:05

I figure the mark of success is that it always comes back to are you improving? whatever it is you're focused on. I'm a writer. So I focus on writing a lot. And I can judge my success by whether or not I'm improving, and all the things that matter. That includes money. I mean, that includes making money from the books that I write, but it also includes refining my editing process and making more contacts that I can leverage for better opportunities. But there's a lot that goes into writing really, that, you know, I for years, I ignored. I don't want to ignore that anymore. I haven't been ignoring that. I've actually been focusing quite a bit on, you know, building up this whole process and technique for not just writing the book, but producing it, getting it out into the world and then marketing that book. Marketing always seemed like a dirty word to me. Which is ironic, because Mark getting really is a big part of my life. I do marketing for drafter digital marketing for the word slinger podcast, I do marketing for all these other things, the silos things that are a part of my life. Marketing doesn't have to be scary. It actually isn't all that scary marketing is just putting your work out there so that it can be found by the right person at the right time when they're ready to buy it. That's the line I give everybody all the time.

Kevin Tumlinson  02:39

So one of the things I've dealt with a lot in everything I do is limiting myself or I start hesitating because I don't know everything or I don't know what I need to do. First what I need to concentrate on is this concept that has come up lot in any research, I've done any studying I've done and it's all about starting before you're ready, you hear that phrase a lot, right? I think that is actually the key. Like everything I ever learned that was useful in any way. It started first. With me just diving in. You know, I wanted to learn how to use Photoshop back in my 20s and I just dove in and did some stuff in Photoshop. I wanted to learn how to edit video. I did that. And you know, there's always room to improve on all this stuff. But you can improve on something unless you're already doing it. So start before you're ready.

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS LITTLE TALE …

You might enjoy a good thriller novel. And I happen to write thriller novels. Find something to keep you up all night at KevinTumlinson.com/books

BE SURE TO SUBSCRIBE WHEREVER YOU LISTEN TO PODCASTS!

Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling thriller author and podcast host. He travels the world looking for interesting tidbits of history and culture to fold into his work, and spends much of his time writing from hotels, cafes, coffee shops, and the occasional ride line at Disney World. Find more of Kevin and his work, including novels and podcasts, at KevinTumlinson.com.

David Hahn was not a terrorist.

The story of a boy scout who nearly went nuclear.
Kevin Tumlinson | WrittenWorld.us

We all have our hobbies. Maybe it’s trains. Maybe it’s comic books. Maybe it’s scotch or fine wine. There’s going to be something you’re passionate about, maybe even obsessed about, that occupies your time away from your work.

But what happens when our hobbies become a threat? And not just a threat to us, but maybe even a threat to our neighbors? Or—think bigger—what happens when our hobbies become a threat to national security?

I’m Kevin Tumlinson, and this … is the Written World.

I like quirky bits of history. I'm always on the lookout for odd little tidbits that make you scratch your head and wonder at what happened. And these can range on the spectrum of epicness—from little-known facts about the evolution of a turn of phrase, such as "jump the shark," to more profound revelations such as the historical presence of Vikings in North America, centuries before its discovery by Europeans.

 I even wrote a whole book about that last one.

 Sometimes, though, you come across some quirky history that makes you pause and makes you think, and may even makes you laugh and cringe a little.

 That's exactly how I feel about David Hahn, the "Radioactive Boy Scout."

 The thing about David's story that resonates most with me is that he grew up in a small town, without much of a social scene, and so he was forced to find his entertainment where he could. He was smart, and I like to think that we share that trait. The opinions of others may vary. And he was resourceful, another thing I believe (or hope) we have in common.

 Growing up in Commerce Township, Michigan, David was a Boy Scout. He participated in all the usual boy scout things, such as going hiking and camping, learning to tie knots, and doing good deeds for the community. By most signs, David was a good kid.

 He earned a lot of badges while in the scouts, but one of those badges set him on a path that would lead to infamy. David, it turns out, was one of only a few people to earn the Atomic Energy merit badge.

David had a keen interest in atomic energy. He obsessed over it, studying everything he could find on the subject. And as it turned out, he could find a lot.

 When trips to the local library weren't producing enough information, David did what any bright and curious kid would do: He opened up a phonebook (this was the early 1990s ... Google wasn't quite a thing yet) and started making phone calls.

He reached out to experts in the field, sometimes telling them he was a student working on a project, sometimes posing as a researcher or other official position. David would often write twenty or more letters per day, occasionally claiming to be a Physics teacher at Chippewa Valley High School. His letters went to experts and professionals all across the industry, including the Department of Energy and the Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

 In the end, not only did David learn exactly how something like a nuclear reactor might work, but he also managed to talk some experts into sending him some parts and supplies.

 What he needed, though, was fissionable material to work with. And lots of it.

 To get it, he got creative. He began salvaging radioactive material from household products. Americium from smoke detectors. Thorium from camping lanterns. Radium from clocks. Tritium from gunsights. Lithium from batteries.

All items that could be obtained either by rummaging through the trash or buying from a local supermarket.

 With materials gathered, and plans cobbled together from books in the public library and documents sent by bonafide nuclear experts, David moved his operation to the shed behind his mother's house. And there, he made history.

 Using his pilfered materials, David built a small nuclear reactor, known as a "breeder reactor." David favored this design because, in a sense, it was self-sustaining.

 We won't go into the pure physics of this, for several reasons. But the short version is that as a breeder reactor uses nuclear fuel, the fission creates radioactive byproducts. So while energy is being generated, the "waste" collects, and this waste can also be used in a fission reaction. In a sense, a breeder reactor generates its own fuel. And though this is far from a perpetual energy source, it can result in a pretty long-lasting source of energy.

 More than most teenagers need, at any rate.

 David got incredibly far along in his experiments and in his build. In fact, he actually succeeded in building the breeder reactor, complete with a radioactive fuel source. And though it never came close to critical mass, it did start generating alarming levels of radiation—more than one thousand times normal background radiation.

This got attention.

 Actually, David and his neighborhood have sheer luck to thank for the fact that his operation was discovered.

 In 1994, just before 3AM on a late August morning, local police were called to investigate claims that a teenager was stealing tires off of cars. They arrived to find David Hahn, who claimed he was just waiting for a friend.

They didn't believe him, and ended up searching his vehicle. When they opened the trunk, they found a metal toolbox, locked and sealed with duct tape, as well as a large assortment of lanterns, clocks, smoke detectors, and more. There were also fifty small cubes of a mysterious gray powder, wrapped in aluminum foil. But what alarmed them most was when David cautioned them about the toolbox, claiming that it was radioactive.

 From there, things escalated quickly. The FBI was called, and they brought along experts from the Nuclear Regulatory Commission (one of the same agencies David had contacted for his research). A Federal State of Nuclear Emergency was declared. There's something you don't see much, in a small town.

 Eventually, men in radiation suits arrived to dismantle David's miniature nuclear facility, carting up not only the reactor and the various materials used but also the tools, the furniture, even the walls of the shed itself. All of it was permeated with alarming levels of radiation, thanks to David's work.

 Frighteningly, some of that material ended up in the local landfill, thrown away in the neighborhood garbage before the Feds ever knew it was there.

These days, the shed and its contents are buried in an undisclosed location in the Great Salt Lake Desert, where it resides next to a bevy of nuclear cast-off, including some of the early experiments that led to the development of the first atomic bomb.

 David Hahn wasn't a terrorist. He was a curious, intelligent, very resourceful boy who became fascinated with something to the degree of obsession. He pursued that obsession, learning everything he could until he did what many might consider impossible.

 David's story is both inspiring and horrifying. On the one hand, it's remarkable that someone so young could have worked out the details of this, in a pre-internet age, to a degree high enough to actually build this device. On the other hand, now that we live in the age of instant information, the implications of something like this are beyond frightening.

I played with this idea a bit in my first thriller novel, The Coelho Medallion. In that book, the terrorist steal crates of smoke detectors, ultimately using the radioactive material within them to build a dirty bomb. It's a scenario that isn't all that farfetched. Which is why it works so well for fiction.

 The world is an interesting and sometimes frightening place. And as we advance in technology, and in our ability to discover and share information, it might be good to keep in mind the David Hahns of the world, and to stress to them the old adage, that just because you can do something, doesn't mean you should.

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS LITTLE TALE …

You might enjoy a good thriller novel. And I happen to write thriller novels. Find something to keep you up all night at KevinTumlinson.com/books

BE SURE TO SUBSCRIBE WHEREVER YOU LISTEN TO PODCASTS!

Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling thriller author and podcast host. He travels the world looking for interesting tidbits of history and culture to fold into his work, and spends much of his time writing from hotels, cafes, coffee shops, and the occasional ride line at Disney World. Find more of Kevin and his work, including novels and podcasts, at KevinTumlinson.com.

You will know them by their fruit.

Resolutions are overrated. Discipline is freedom.
Kevin Tumlinson | WrittenWorld.us

I don’t really do “resolutions.”

I have, in the past. But like most people I’ve discovered that I have a tendency to overdo it. I decide, resolutely, that I’m going to, say, exercise every day, lose twenty pounds, learn to play an instrument, learn to speak another language, reorganize my closet, travel more, write more, etc., etc., etc. Big piles. Big goals.

The trouble is, when we do this we’re setting ourselves up for failure.

Don’t get me wrong: All of these “big goals” can be good for us. It’s good to want to get in shape, to lose weight and exercise more. It’s good to want to learn new things, and go to new places. It’s just the pressure we put on ourselves to “do it all now” that winds up being bad. That’ll tank your energy faster than anything. And no energy, no go.

Every new year, I pick a word. The word of the year. And that word is my guidepost for everything I do over that year.

This year, the word is commitment.

I have always hated commitments. Such a typical guy thing, right? But putting your word on something, and then have to live up to it or risk looking like a fool or a failure or both… ick. No thank you.

Except…

There’s a phrase I’ve encountered quite a bit since I started studying stoicism (oh yeah … I study stoicism! I’ll fill you in on that later): “Discipline is freedom.”

I like this phrase because it’s demonstrably true. If you are disciplined about how you eat and how you exercise, you’re free to have dessert without guilt, from time to time. If you’re disciplined with saving and investing your money, you’re free to buy a house or a car, or take a trip, or buy yourself something nice. Discipline really is freedom.

And to become disciplined requires commitment.

There’s another rule about commitment that I follow, though: Tell no one of your plans until you can prove your commitment.

I like this, too, because I’ve come to understand that sharing my plans with people is the quickest way to suck all the energy out of them.

This is the other problem I always have with resolutions. People always ask you about them, around this time of year, as if they wouldn’t know exactly what you’re going to say. There are, essentially, three recurring New Year’s resolutions, let’s just face it.

But if you do happen to have something unique and original—”I’m going to write a blog post every single day for the whole year!”—as soon as anyone hears it you get the standard “response of discouragement.” Their eyes widen slightly, they inhale, they blow out their breath as they shake their head. They say, “Man, I’d never do that.” Or worse, they actively warn you against even trying it.

Most of the time these are meant to be well-meaning comments. They don’t think you’ll pull this off, and they don’t want you to fail. So the best way to avoid failure is to not try.

The thing is, who’s really to say whether you could or could not pull off something like daily blogging? There are people like Seth Godin who have literally blogged every single day for years. No one is going to tell him he can’t do it, at this point.

Casey Neistat, a popular YouTuber and filmmaker, did a daily vlog—that’s a video blog, fully produced with high production value—for 800 days straight. I did the math: That’s two years, two months, and ten days. For more than two years Casey produced high-quality video, without missing a beat. I have trouble posting something once a month.

So it might be unlikely that someone could succeed at a “big goal,” but it’s not impossible. It’s just that Seth Godin and Casey Neistat didn’t go out and say to everyone they know, “I’m going to do this.” Instead … they just did it.

They told no one of their plans until they could prove their commitment.

There’s a reason this sort of thing works.

From a psychological perspective, our brains don’t really know the difference between energy spent doing something and energy spent talking about doing something. We are, for the most part, wired for story. As long as the story is active and engaging, we pay attention. We stay focused. But when the story is complete… we’re done.

It’s wired into us. We crave novelty and satisfaction. And the former wears off once the latter has been fulfilled.

Talking about what we’re going to do is telling a story. We’re giving it our energy. We’re putting it out there for others to scrutinize. And once we have their feedback… story over. The energy fades. We’re not as excited anymore.

If we could tell (and better yet, show) all of our friends and family the amazing progress we’ve made in going from fat and flabby and weak to thing and muscled and strong, we’d get a little kick of adrenaline and endorphins that would make us feel great! But we can get a sort of pseudo endorphin kick by just skipping all the hard work and talking to someone about what we’re gonna do. We skip the line. We take our reward early.

The trouble is, it’s hollow and meaningless. Taking the reward before the work robs us of the real heart of the story.

So, I’m a Christian. And in the New Testament there’s this passage:

6 “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven.

2 “So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. 3 But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, 4 so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

Matthew 6:1-4

Don’t worry, you don’t have to be a Christian or even a believer to see the wisdom in this. But it’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about. When you talk to people about what you’re gonna do, you essentially “receive your reward in full.” You get all the gratification, then and there, and it feels empty. It lacks substance.

There’s probably a stoic version of this, but I’m kind of new to the philosophy, and haven’t come across it yet.

The whole point here, when we boil off the excess, is that resolutions, especially publicly made resolutions, lack any real power. They’re a story, but they’re like the Cliff’s Notes version. The real story is our commitment.

If discipline is freedom, then commitment is the key to achieving everything we ever wanted. It’s real power. Super power.

And it can’t be faked. You can write it down, post it on Instagram, make some YouTube videos about it, but that’s all meaningless. It’s doing that proves your commitment.

Which reminds me of another passage from a wise sage:

“Do. Or do not. there is no try.”

—Yoda, Jedi Master

So, I’m not going to talk about my New Year’s resolutions. Although I can say that what you’re reading, right now, is a part of the commitment I’ve made for my life, going forward.

And no … it’s not daily blogging.

You’ll just have to stick around and see what I produce. Because it’s my consistent actions and results that demonstrate my commitment. And I can’t fake those with platitudes or inspirational quotes or selfies of me at the gem.

One last bible verse, to sum this up:

You will know them by their fruit.

Matthew 7:16

Look at what I produce. Look at what anyone produces. You’ll know our commitments by our fruit. You’ll know who we are by what we produce in the world.

Here’s to 2020, and the commitments and disciplines that will enable us to produce good fruit in the world.

BE SURE TO SUBSCRIBE WHEREVER YOU LISTEN TO PODCASTS!

YOU’LL SLEEP WHEN YOU’RE READ
Start your up-all-night adventure with an archaeological thriller.

Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling thriller author and podcast host. He travels the world looking for interesting tidbits of history and culture to fold into his work, and spends much of his time writing from hotels, cafes, coffee shops, and the occasional ride line at Disney World. Find more of Kevin and his work, including novels and podcasts, at KevinTumlinson.com.

Who was Elisabeth Friedman?

The woman who cracked codes and kicked Nazi butt.
Kevin Tumlinson | WrittenWorld.us

Secrets have power. And no one knows that better than the people who trade in secrets, constantly playing at a game of hiding information from the enemy while simultaneously trying to to crack that enemy’s own codes.

And then there are secrets that are just meant to empower one group while denying the contributions of another. That’s certainly the case for Elisabeth Friedman—the greatest codebreaker you’ve never heard of.

As part of the writing process, I end up doing a lot of research and reading. Some of this is intensive, such as reading half a dozen books on a topic, searching out YouTube videos and documentaries, that sort of thing. Some is just spot research, a quick dip into Wikipedia or a Google search for things like "common Russian boy names."

As I was writing The Stepping Maze, I read everything I could get my hands on about WWII-era codebreaking. One of the books I stumbled upon was The Woman Who Smashed Codes, by Jason Fagone. It's a look into the life of Elisabeth Friedman, wife of famed Cryptologist William Friedman.

Though William gets all the historical credit, particularly for his part in the founding of the NSA, Elisabeth may be the bigger powerhouse, when it comes to their codebreaking legacy. She contributed as much if not more than any male counterpart when it came to deciphering the coded messages of the Nazis, during WWII. And because of her work, a pretty serious threat against the United States was quashed before it began.

Prior to WWII, during the Prohibition era, Elisabeth was recruited to work with the Coast Guard. She was instrumental in finding, exposing, and ultimately taking down a secret network of rum runners and gangsters, assisting law enforcement in bring some pretty shady characters to justice. And she did it with the complete disdain of the media, who preferred to call out how attractive and unsupposing she was, rather than emphasize her utter brilliance.

This sort of treatment was something that would plague Elisabeth all her life. Even during WWII, her exposure of a Nazi spy ring in South America was co-opted by a new, fledgling law enforcement agency—the Federal Bureau of Investigations. In an effort to make a name for himself and the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover blatantly took credit for Elisabeth's work, framing everything in such a way that it was an FBI victory by FBI resources. If you've ever read much history about Hoover, you won't find this surprising at all. He was kind of a tool.

It's notable, by the way, that during the time that Elisabeth was taking down Nazis using a pen and legal pad, she was also caring for her husband, William. His own work in cryptography is astounding, and includes some of the most incredible advances to that field of study the world has ever known. He and his team created an encoding and decoding machine so effective that it was never cracked. In fact, the Nazis and the Japanese ceased even attempting to crack US coded messages, as it was such a phenomenal waste of time. The guy was that good.

But it came at a huge cost. The intense hours and pressure, the absolute need for secrecy, even from his wife, and the burden of knowing that lives depended on every stroke of his pen and every clever thought—it eventually took a toll on him. William suffered a complete breakdown, and for a time was committed to a sanitarium. At a time when all mental illness was treated with brutal and horrifying methods, William faced not only life-threatening treatments but the potential end of his career, even if he were "cured."

Elisabeth stepped in to care for him during this time, creating for him a peaceful and happy home life with her and their children, encouraging him and standing for him as he faced challenges with employers. At one point they had to fight for him to be paid for his work, and fought again to keep him in his role with the military.

She did this, all of it, while continuing to break the codes used by the enemies of the US and the Allies. She kept her husband sane, her family healthy, both their careers intact, and the country safe. What a woman!

Though The Stepping Maze isn't about Elisabeth Friedman, and only briefly mentions her, I can tell you that her spirit is there. I appreciate people with her sort of inner strength, and her brilliant intelligence. She is a figure obscured in history, but is an absolute lynchpin in the mechanics of our modern world. We all owe her, more than we can repay.

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS LITTLE TALE …

You might enjoy a good thriller novel. And I happen to write thriller novels. Find something to keep you up all night at KevinTumlinson.com/books

BE SURE TO SUBSCRIBE WHEREVER YOU LISTEN TO PODCASTS!

Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling thriller author and podcast host. He travels the world looking for interesting tidbits of history and culture to fold into his work, and spends much of his time writing from hotels, cafes, coffee shops, and the occasional ride line at Disney World. Find more of Kevin and his work, including novels and podcasts, at KevinTumlinson.com.

Death unites us all (in the end).

Ah Puch, the Mayan Death God
Kevin Tumlinson | WrittenWorld.us

What’s one thing we all have in common?

Regardless of your wealth or poverty, your skin color, your nationality, your politics, or even religious affiliation, there’s one thing you can count on sharing with every other living human being—and that is, one day, NOT being a living human being.  

Death unites us all. In the end.

In my novel The Girl in the Mayan Tomb one of the most pivotal characters never actually shows up, never has a line of dialogue, and never interacts with any of the other characters. ​Still, the Mayan god, Ah Puch, has a sinister and ominous presence in the story, for sure. He helps to drive the action, giving Dan Kotler plenty to work with regarding legend and mythos and hidden secrets. Ah Puch manages to threaten the modern world from deep within the tomb of history. Pretty cool stuff. The kind of legend that archaeological thrillers are made of.

In the book, I give some details about Ah Puch and his role in Mayan culture. There are tidbits and cool facts, plenty of Wikipedia-level information about him. I'd call it a nice overview, rather than an in-depth look into who and what he was, and that's intentional.

I'm not writing histories here, I'm writing fictional adventures. Still, you want to get some things right.

I admit that some details are skewed, if not made up entirely. There's no evidence linking Ah Puch to the Inca god Viracocha, for example. At least, none I'm aware of. But connecting those two ideas helped me to build some intrigue into the story, plus a bit of that "misplaced history" that I love folding into the batter of these books before baking them to a nice, crispy brown. Little concessions to the history behind the fiction were a necessity for the story, but the core of the Ah Puch legend is real, and I kept that intact as much as possible.

True, Ah Puch is one of the names of the Mayan god of death, darkness, and destruction, but what fascinates me is that he is also the god of birth and new beginnings, making him a study in opposites. He actually manages to embody the two extremes of human existence, as if he would be the one standing at the door between life and death, greeting you no matter which direction you're moving. That appeals to me for its aesthetic encapsulation of the cycle of life: Ah Puch alone would have a complete outsider's perspective on both life and death in the Mayan world. He'd be the unbiased witness to all of it.  

Having an outsider's perspective on something as profound as all of life and death has to lead to an equally profound level of wisdom. At least, that's how I see it, from my own highly biased perspective as a living human. And so I think it's not entirely a coincidence that one of the dominant totems for Ah Puch was the owl—a creature we've come to associate with wisdom itself. Though there's really no reason why ancient Mayan cultures would have seen the owl in just this way—I could be backfilling my own cognitive bias onto the symbolism of an ancient civilization. But the idea of "wise old Mr. Owl" has some deep roots, and there's nothing to say that ancient Mayans didn't think of owls in more or less the same way.

Again, it's fiction. I'm pretty ok with making a few leaps. 

It’s far more likely, though, that the owl became associated with Ah Puch because of his role as not only the god of death but the god of darkness and disaster as well. Owls, by their very nature, are nocturnal, hunting small prey in the night and taking them off into the darkness where they are consumed. If you happen to be a rodent, that’s some pretty disastrous stuff. I can certainly see the Mayans watching this and connecting it to their own small roles in the panoply of the Amazon jungles. If anyone was wise to the cycle of life and death, it was the Mayans.

It isn’t much of a leap to think of the god of death as a predatory bird swooping down to snatch the lives of humans, to carry them off into the dark and indiscernible underworld. ​Which underworld, however, was sort of up in the air.

In Western culture, we tend to lump the Mayans into one solid category, but their civilization was a lot more complex and nuanced than we might imagine. As a general not-quite-unified civilization, the Mayans were spread throughout Central America and Mexico, with some hints of them extending to further extremes on the Southern Continent. Mayan settlements peppered the Yucatán Peninsula, Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, El Salvador, Belize—it was an empire widespread enough to rival the Roman and British empires, at least to scale, though it predated both by thousands of years.

Wrap your brain around that one for a second. The Mayans were a fully functional, tool-wielding, government-operating culture, building epic stone structures and inventing mythologies and unfolding histories before most Europeans ever were Europeans.

Though all of these Mayan tribes (if "tribes" is even the right word) shared some common core beliefs, by necessity some of the specifics would skew from the core as an ancient game of telephone played out. One tribe would take its beliefs and mythology in this slightly shifted direction, while another took it in that moderately altered perspective. As such we find that Ah Puch had a catalog of names: Hun Ahau, Yum Cimil, Cum Hau, Pukuh, Cizin, and a host of variations on some of these, alongside a plethora of mythical and mystical origins, motivations, and enemies. 

Ah Puch also ended up with a wealth of homeworlds. Nearly every Mayan group had its own ideas of where Ah Puch lived when he wasn't capturing souls on Earth, relegating them to an array of underworlds. The Yucatec Maya referred to Ah Puch's home turf as Xibaba, for example, while the Quiche Maya called the underworld Metnal.

I sort of prefer the latter.  

Metnal was the lowest level of the underworld, which makes a kind of sense. When we die, regardless of our culture and traditions, we are almost always on a one-way trip into the dirt at our feet. It's only logical that most cultures would begin to think of the afterlife as a place below us, a world played out in caverns and caves.

What I find fascinating is the presence of "levels" of the underworld in Mayan culture, in a close and bizarre parallel to the way Westerners defer to Dante's Divine Comedy, particularly Inferno, to describe the afterlife. Metnal was the lowest level of the underworld to the Mayans in much the same way that the Inferno was represented as stacked layers of hell to Europeans. What a strange place to find parallels between two distant and disparate societies, right?

And then there was the devil himself.

As a god of death, Ah Puch was associated with some of the more heinous aspects of human culture and life, including disease, war, and that horrific but macabrely fascinating practice—human sacrifice. I drew from this for Girl in the Mayan Tomb, principally the disease bits, and I regret nothing. History and legend and myth tend to have some root in real-world, discernible fact, and it seems plausible (to me, at least) that if a culture worships a god who controls disease, they might hold disease itself in some reverence. If you haven't read the book, I don't think I'm throwing any spoilers out there, but it relies pretty heavily on this idea of disease as a form of worship.

We Westerners tend to filter our perspective of history and mythology through the pantheons of ancient civilizations such as the Greeks, the Romans, the Norse. But there are so many gods out there—an endless parade of them in every culture, and in every shape and form imaginable. The thing that tingles in my brain and my soul, every time I read and learn more about these pantheons and their gods, is how similar they can be. 

Ah Puch has his parallels in the Greek god of death Thanatos (which may sound a little familiar to fans of the Avengers films and Marvel Comics in general, as an inspiration for the character Thanos). There are parallels as well with gods such as Hades (Greek), Anubis (Egyptian), Yama (Hindu), Osiris (Egyptian), Azrael (Judaism), Yan Luo (Chinese), the Morrigan (Celtic) and many, many more.

I could have chosen any Mayan death god—there were several. But Ah Puch piqued my attention for a variety of reasons. His symbols—including the skeletal figure you might expect, as well as the predatory owl—were intriguing to me, as was the sort of cognitive dissonance of his roles as both the god of death and the god of birth. His name itself was a sort of draw, giving me a chance to have Agent Roland Denzel continually fumbling it, getting close but never quite getting it right. How could I pass on a good "Ah-Choo" joke?

Trick question. I can't. 

History and mythology are so overripe with characters like Ah Puch that I could write about them for the rest of my life and still leave stories untold. That, of course, is the biggest draw of all. There's also the satisfaction of knowing I'm calling attention to characters who may otherwise have been lost to history, or at least to the pop-culture filter of history.

I'm happy to have helped bring Ah Puch into the modern spotlight a little. He probably wouldn't like it much, but it was fun all the same. Delivering a dark and forgotten god forward into history allowed me to dig a little deeper into a lost (mostly lost) culture, to think about how they thought and lived and understood the world around them, and to come away with some new insights and perspectives that I could share, hopefully in exciting, action-packed ways.

That's half of why I write in the first place—to explore the Written World we sometimes live in parallel to, and never fully realize is there. If you enjoyed this little tale …

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS LITTLE TALE …

You might enjoy a good thriller novel. And I happen to write thriller novels. Find something to keep you up all night at KevinTumlinson.com/books

BE SURE TO SUBSCRIBE WHEREVER YOU LISTEN TO PODCASTS!

Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling thriller author and podcast host. He travels the world looking for interesting tidbits of history and culture to fold into his work, and spends much of his time writing from hotels, cafes, coffee shops, and the occasional ride line at Disney World. Find more of Kevin and his work, including novels and podcasts, at KevinTumlinson.com.

What does it mean to be truly alone?

Who was the North Pond Hermit?
Kevin Tumlinson | WrittenWorld.us

Have you ever actually been alone for any real length of time? No smartphones, no internet, nobody in the apartment next door. Just you and miles of wilderness. Would you be willing to endure that kind of alone-ness and solitude for a day? A week? A month?

How about 27 years?

One man knows exactly what this means.

There's something about being alone, especially alone in the woods, that starts you thinking in a brand new way. You may begin with fear and apprehension, startled by every sound in the brush. If you're afraid of snakes or bears, or bears with snakes for arms, these things will have a growing presence in your consciousness. You'll start to see and hear signs of them everywhere.

Beyond fear, though, being alone in the wilderness can often bring a sense of peace. When you’re away from the noise of civilization, alone with only your own thoughts for company, you become aware of some greater force. Maybe it’s God, or maybe it's just the presence of nature. Your own filters and bias can decide. But it's there. You may not believe it, but when you're out there all on your own, you will feel it.

Just ask the North Pond Hermit.

Christopher Thomas Knight got his nickname the hard way: He lived it for nearly three decades, out in the woods beside North Pond Maine, alone. By himself. No human contact.

For 27 years.

Some of us can’t go a full day without checking in on Facebook, but Chris Knight managed to abandon humanity entirely for half his life, wandering into the woods at 20 years old and not emerging and rejoining society again until he was 47 years old.

Well … sort of.

Turns out, during that 20 years in the woods, though Knight really was utterly alone, speaking to no one and in fact having no human contact whatsoever, he hadn't entirely removed himself from human society. He held on to a tether, of sorts.

During those 27 years in the woods, Knight managed to survive by breaking into local cabins and even a camp for disabled kids, all during the offseason. He would raid pantries and cupboards and walk-in freezers for as much food as he could carry back to his camp. He would swipe clothing and sleeping bags, plastic tarps and propane tanks, and anything else he might need.

And books—he stole a lot of books. Plus handheld videos games, a small black-and-white television, even a twin-sized mattress.

He stole what he needed from the people who lived or owned property around North Pond, and he did it hundreds of times over three decades. He may actually turn out to be the most successful serial robber in history.

Knight would lug this ill-gotten bounty back with him, pushing into the thick, impossible woods that ride the edge of North Pond, somehow managing to haul it all through the brambles to a clearing he'd made for himself.

The clearing was something of a miracle itself.

Throughout his 27 years in the woods, Knight had swept the grounds, removed stray branches and stones, and made a space for himself. But he hadn't stopped there. He went on to lining and leveling the ground with bundles of stolen National Geographic Magazine—favored for its glossy pages, which helped to keep water moving rather than soaking in. He created a subfloor with bricks of magazines, and then built on top of it. Layering tarps and tents and other materials, Knight built the ultimate grownup blanket fort, capable of keeping out rain and snow, insects and animals. A cozy little place to spend a life alone.

It wasn't perfect. Not like having a tiny cabin in the woods. The cold, sometimes dipping as low as -25˚F (-32˚C), still crept in, bypassing any attempt to keep it at bay and threatening to end him every winter.

Knight survived by fattening himself up, the same way bears and other mammals might, and sticking to a strict discipline of getting up early, around 2 AM each morning, moving and performing tasks to get his blood flowing. While people slept in warm beds and heated cabins just a few hundred feet from him, Chris Knight intentionally struggled against the Maine Winter, literally stomping it out as he performed chores in his camp.

He never managed to keep his feet warm, though. Layers of socks, hot water bottles, piles of blankets and sleeping bags, and without fail his feet were freezing by morning anyway. Such is the life of a hermit in the woods of Maine.

To keep himself hidden, Knight committed to some extreme methods, and even more extreme discipline. He never left his clearing when there was snow on the ground, for example, because there was no way to avoid leaving tracks. He never lit a fire, because someone might see the smoke or the flames. He learned to walk on the stones and tree roots of his woods, so there could never be a trace of him even if someone came looking.

For 27 years, the North Pond Hermit plagued (some would say “terrorized”) locals, finding ways to break into their vacation homes, taking whatever he needed, absconding with food and alcohol and clothing, and with any and all candy he could find. He had something of a sweet tooth.

The North Pond Hermit became a local legend, like Maine's version of Sasquatch or the Jersey Devil. Some doubted his existence. Some were afraid of him. No one, however, ever saw him or spoke to him for almost thirty years. The most anyone had in the way of evidence for his existence were some game camera photos and a bit of security camera footage. And a lot of missing stuff, of course.

Here's the thing—Chris Knight lived an existence entirely apart from human interaction for three decades, surviving in one of the harshest regions of the US (Maine winters are brutal), and getting by more or less on the refuse and leavings of humanity, all while living only a few hundred feet from civilization.

The woods that Knight called home were situated in an area that had a light permanent population but a sizeable seasonal vacation presence. From his clearing, he could hear activity on the lake, from fishermen to motorboats. And he was just a short walk from the cabins he robbed on a regular basis.

Somehow, Christopher Thomas Knight, the North Pond Hermit, had pulled off the near-impossible feat of disappearing in plain sight. And if he hadn’t finally been caught and arrested while breaking into that camp for disabled children, in 2013, it’s possible he would have lived a lifetime and died a peaceful death right among the local population, without anyone ever knowing he was there.

A quiet, unremarkable, unknown death. Just as he would have wanted.

If you’ve read any of my fiction, you know that I have a great fondness for resourceful, autonomous, independent characters. I love the idea of someone being able to withdraw from society, if they have to, and get by on their wits and intelligence. I write characters who primarily look at the modern world as a cookie jar of resources and are unafraid to take what they need when they need it.

Christopher Knight wasn't quite identical to any given character I've written, but at heart, he is exactly who I have in mind.

I discovered Knight through Michael Finke’s book The Stranger In The Woods, and I found myself (over and over) identifying with him. Maybe it was a romanticized sort of thing, I can cop to that. I don’t exactly have an urge to live in the woods, secluded from everyone, too afraid to so much as light a fire to keep warm or cook a meal. But that impulse to walk away from the world and rely on my own character and strength and resourcefulness? Oh yeah. That attracts me.

My version of this was to do things like selling the house my wife and I lived in for four years and buy an RV, traveling the country while I wrote and produced podcasts and attended author conferences. And now that we're back to a "home base," I find myself lingering on ideas like trading my pickup for a camper van, or maybe just putting a camper shell on the truck and lighting out for parts unknown.

The other parallel for me is my tendency to do things like choose a city and fly there, just to spend a week walking its streets, alone, checking out all the hidden corners. As I write this, I'm doing that very thing, wandering the streets of Seattle. I don't shy away from either the ritzy heights or the impromptu tent villages of the homeless people. I check out the touristy stuff, and I duck into the things that buttress the city's real culture and personality.

On trips like this, I'll sometimes skip the hotel in favor of wandering on foot for a day and a night, catching quick naps in coffee shops and bookstores and libraries, sleeping in a rental car if I have one. My version of roughing it.

But the thing is, I can always get a hotel. I can hop on a plane home, whenever I want. I can take out my iPhone and get an Uber to an AirBnB. I have a backup plan.

Chris Knight had none of that, and he didn’t want it. He left society behind, not because he was angry or afraid or bitter but because …

Well, honestly, even Knight himself doesn’t know. There was no reason. He had no reason for leaving.

We find that impossible to accept.

“Everything has a reason.” That’s our mantra. It’s what our entire culture and society are built on. But the truth, the real truth, is that sometimes there isn’t a reason. Sometimes we decide to grab soup instead of a sandwich, or a table by the window instead of one by the fireplace, or a red scarf instead of a blue scarf, and we just have no justification for any of it. And sometimes we decide to park our car, toss the keys on the dash, and walk into the woods forever, with nothing motivating us beyond the idea of it.

Being alone can change who you are. It can be both damaging and healing. It can be an expression and a silence, a protest, and an acceptance. Did Chris Knight have any of this in mind, at any time from the start to finish of his life in the woods? Maybe. Maybe not. But looking at what he did and how he lived, it’s inspiring. We can learn from it, even if there was no lesson intended.

If you enjoyed this little tale …

You might enjoy a good thriller novel. And I happen to write thriller novels. Find something to keep you up all night at KevinTumlinson.com/books

BE SURE TO SUBSCRIBE WHEREVER YOU LISTEN TO PODCASTS!

Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling thriller author and podcast host. He travels the world looking for interesting tidbits of history and culture to fold into his work, and spends much of his time writing from hotels, cafes, coffee shops, and the occasional ride line at Disney World. Find more of Kevin and his work, including novels and podcasts, at KevinTumlinson.com.