There’s something calming about boarding a plane.
Of course that’s after I’ve reconciled that the plane could crash on take-off, get struck by lightning and disintegrate in mid air and plummet to earth, or crash on landing.
But with that said, when the flight attendant says, ¨Please turn off all electronic devices,” a peace comes over me.
Life’s interruptions are gone. No one can get to me.
Of course, death could still get me if I choke on a peanut.
But at 32,000 feet in the air, I’m distanced and disconnected from my normal distractions.
No phones calls. No email correspondence. No appointments.
I am expected to sit for two and a half hour—or however long any of my flights are—and not move around.
And at 32,000 feet, I find a peace in that. This time is mine.
I can read a book non-stop. I can read Writer’s Digest and the RWR cover to cover. I can think about all my W.I.P.’s for ten minutes, twenty, a half-hour, or the whole flight.
I can contemplate what it would feel like to be published. To have an agent not just send for a partial, but call me and say, ¨Loved your query for How Em Found Her Cha Cha. Please send the whole manuscript.” And then a week later, she’d call and say, “I’d like to sign you on as a client. And wait till I tell you what your advance is going to be.”
I can fantasize what it would be like to be heading for a book tour, signing hundreds of copies of How Em Found Her Cha Cha.
And then . . .
The plane lands.
¨You may now turn on your cell phones and other electronic devices,” the flight attendant says.
And it's back to reality once again.