I’ve never explained the name of my blog—Where the Pavement Ends.
The most enjoyable hikes, in my opinion, are usually well away from the asphalt, somewhere in the deep woods, to such places as “Hidden Falls.” That is a literal understanding of the title to describe where the blacktop road ends and the dirt path begins.
The “end of the pavement,” however, at least in my mind, is a metaphor.
My hope has been to write about what other people are ignoring, to think about what others are not thinking about.
When I attended a conference for travel writers in Shreveport recently, I realized how many of the articles that the slick magazines publish are about predictable destinations—Paris, London, Boston, New Zealand.
I am far more fascinated in and charmed by the odd stuff, what is out of the way. Sometimes, I write about the ordinary if I think reflective writers have neglected some commonplace reality:
- neighborhood parades,
- friendships made when traveling,
- relationships developed when traveling.
I’m not saying I will never write about South Beach, Piccadilly Circus, Park Avenue or the Town Square, but those subjects are well-covered by others. My hope is to explore worlds we know little about, where we have only a surface sensitivity. Sometimes that world is on another continent, and sometimes it is just barely outside our awareness—a shoe, a stamp, a smile.
I write to tell those stories about where, it seems to me, the pavement has ended.