This must be the place: ‘You know that if we are to stay alive, then see the peace in every eye’
Waffle House, Waynesville.
Garret K. Woodward photo
Last week, I received an email one morning from a reader of this here column. He said he enjoyed the words spilling out over this one particular page every week, then asked if I had thought about putting out a book. It had been awhile since that notion floated through my mind. And, truth be told, it dusted off some aspirations I’ve been keeping in the closet of my mind for too long.
To preface, the whole reason I became a journalist/writer was to find a way to have adventures, travels, interact with strangers and share those stories with whoever was willing to flip open the page. In June 2005, I had my epiphany to become a writer, all while reading Jack Kerouac’s seminal 1957 novel “On the Road.” I was on a solo road trip from my native Upstate New York to East Tennessee. I was also entering my junior year of college in Connecticut.
Nothing was ever the same after that. I switched my college major from broadcast journalism to print, which became sort of a hybrid degree when all was said and done. No matter, straddling the line between broadcast and print ultimately gave me my voice, where I write more conversationally than other print folks — I write more for the ear than the eye (broadcast style).
From there, it was hiding out in 24-hour diners on the outskirts of my New England campus, writing wildly in my Moleskin notebooks. Page after page of dribble. I couldn’t stop the flow of thoughts emerging from my subconscious. Still can’t, thankfully. For an ADHD-diagnosed kid growing up in the 1990s, one who used sports and live music to tire me out, writing became another outlet to balance the endlessly energy flowing through my body and mind.
Once the restless thoughts in my head were transferred onto the page, my mind would finally get cleared out, now freed to focus on other things in life, whether that be school or work or whatever the heck else I filled my time with back then, and even today. Writing remains the intrinsic platform by which I’m able to fully communicate with the greater universe (and you, too).
Which leads me to the “here and now” and what’s currently rolling through my thoughts. Gazing outside my apartment window in downtown Waynesville, the trees are bursting with color, the leaves falling as fast as the colors appeared. Fall will always be my favorite season, even if it comes and goes in the blink of an eye.
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Those warm summer nights long gone in the rearview mirror of life are now replaced with cool evenings, more so this week, where I’m now grabbing my jacket when heading out the front door to watch the baseball playoffs at the neighborhood pub. And plans are still in the works, more so in limbo, to return back to the North Country in the coming days.
Once again, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it home for the holidays this year (it’s been a spell). But, I think I can slip my work collar for a week or two of running around the Champlain Valley and greater Adirondack Mountains. Even though it’ll be cold up yonder, maybe even some snowflakes, no matter, for that space I’ll happily inhabit. It’s home. And I miss it.
To that, maybe I’ll take some of that time in Upstate New York to sketch out an outline for a book. Several years ago, I wrote a bluegrass book to some acclaim. I’m not even sure there are any copies left on the shelves of the local bookstores. Probably have to reorder some. I’d did book readings all around Southern Appalachia to a few dozen folks (Asheville) or simply nobody at all (Athens). It was a worthwhile project I remain proud of. But, what next, eh?
Truth is, it’s been such a whirlwind of writing, of wandering and pondering, of heartache and triumph, of nothing and everything, where I realized it’s been eight years since I’ve headed down the rabbit hole of a literary project. Ideally, I’d like to (maybe) do a collection of these columns. I’ve been writing it every week since June 2013. So, that amounts to, what? Like almost 650 weeks?
Anyhow, like the words scribbled down in haste in Connecticut diners some 20 years ago, most of this could be considered dribble. Personally, I prefer to take the sacred act of stream-of-consciousness writing and apply it to this local newspaper. Luckily, I have a publisher who continues to let me roam free on the page, on the open road from coast-to-coast — the road being my absolute Zen zone of self. Either way, the work remains plentiful, so does the gratitude.
It’s like the other day when I found myself at the Waffle House on Russ Avenue. The main reason I wanted to hit it up was to try out some of the fresh maple syrup that one of my Waynesville friends brought back for me from a recent trip to the Northeast Kingdom of rural Vermont.
And it meant a lot to get some real deal syrup, where I was immediately transported back to my parents’ farmhouse up near the Canadian Border, the scene of me eating some homemade French toast doused in brown liquid gold, my mother asking if I wanted another slice or more coffee.
While sitting at the Waffle House counter, I cracked open my dog-eared copy of Kerouac’s “The Dharma Bums,” a book of legend and lore that I’ve carried with me since college. It’s traveled to every corner of America, either in my backpack or in the center console of my pickup truck.
To that, I’ll open it to a random page of “The Dharma Bums” whenever I have a moment in transit or at a diner, and just go with the flow from there — the sentiment of the (seemingly) randomness often aligning with my current state of being, the words connecting like magnets.
The clock keeps ticking away in the newsroom, as does the tinkering in my soul in putting together another book. I thank you, dear reader, for sparking up that old flame, once thought to be dormant, but merely small and steady, eager for the moment to toss a couple more logs onto the fire of one’s intent. Well, it can’t hurt to see where this endeavor may take me. Stay tuned.
Who knows? Who cares, right? It’s all wonderful. The good, the bad, and the ugly. It’s all wonderful, and as it should be. You can only truly appreciate the light by going through the darkness. Head held high and with an undying determination to chase after whatever dreams lie just beyond your reach, at least for now. In due time, what you seek will find you. I know that to be true.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
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Garrett, your column is always the first thing I read in SMN. I have always connected with your writings, despite the fact that (or maybe because) I am a 7 decades plus wannabe hippy whose rhythm resonates with a road less traveled. Looking forward to whatever you decide to publish. Keep it coming!
Tuesday, 10/28/2025
