The first money I ever made as a fiction writer came from a short story I wrote in my pocket notebook. Written in a coffee shop while seated at the bar, waiting for my boss to show so we could go shoot footage of vintage warplanes, I penned a tale that eventually won me my first Danny Lee Lawrence award—and $500. What we writers would call “a good start.”

I like the Squared/Gridded notebook, to help me sketch, or to help me organize into rows and columns, or just to help me divvy up the page. And every single day I write in one of these. I have stacks of completed notebooks in a cigar box, and I carry several of these on all my travels. I never leave home without one close by.

In a Paris café, surrounded by people speaking a language I could only understand in short, slow bursts, I sat with a notebook and jotted down bits of wisdom, things I was grateful for, and half a page of stream of consciousness about where I was, what I was feeling, and who I thought it made me. Sitting alone in a foreign country can be intimidating. But holding one of these pens, gliding it across the page, seeing the glisten of the ink—it’s comforting. It feels like I’m doing something ancient and grand and beautiful. Because I am.

I prefer the Navy Blue version, and I get Pentel’s blue ink cartridges for it. There are other colors of both pen and ink. But for me, this blue is the color of my inner sky and my sense of personal peace.

I noticed something on a trip to Vegas—I had a stand-in.

Scanning through the photos on my phone, I started seeing the pattern of a location, a scene, a setting … and a backpack. The backpack. My backpack.

And it hit me that this pack I carry everywhere I go, every place I travel, is a stand-in for me in those photos. It becomes the subject when I need something to give a scene context. When I need a metaphor to cover the story of me in a place, at a time, exploring the world.

I can’t find this exact backpack anywhere. But I’ve found one that’s pretty close. I’m hoping you’ll take it with you and make it a metaphor for your own stories, in the places you go.

In Key West, sweating in the oppressive heat and humidity, I wiped my brow on my T-shirt and trekked on. I was here for 48 hours, and this was the only time I was going to get to myself. A few hours of exploring street shops, eating local Cuban-themed food, and of course, visiting PaPa Hemingway’s house.

I did the tour. Saw all the six-toed cats. Imagined what the place was like back in the day. And then I saw it… the typewriter. Those glorious keys, once pressed and punched by the man himself. The translator between Hemingway’s thoughts and the words on the page.

I’d like to think that if Hemingway was writing in the modern age, he’d use something like the Keychron K3. The clack of real mechanical keys, the tactile feel conducting right into your bones. And of course, that backlit keyboard—which I’ve set to a permanent amber glow that reminds me of whiskey. Just like Papa would have wanted.

Nobody likes disappointment. And I was for sure disappointed when my Stanley-green coffee traveler gave up the ghost. I had bought it the instant I saw it, because it was perfect. I had a thing for that classic green. I liked that it was compact and rugged. I likened that it had a little push-button spout that would not only let me sip from it, but made it easy to pour coffee from it into another mug.

I traveled with that thing for years. It went with us in RV life and van life. It went overseas with me in the side pouch of my backpack. It was there for me, every morning, keeping my coffee hot so I could drink it in sips, one pour at a time.

And then it broke.

Stanley has a lifetime warranty on these things. But when I reached out, they informed me they no longer made the model I had come to love. They did offer, however, to send me a newer, equivalent model. It wouldn’t be in that same classic green, but would be more of a navy blue color. Would that be ok?

Did I have a choice? So… sure.

And, it turns out, the consolation prize is every bit as capable, beautiful, and essential as my original. I can barely function without this thing and its contents, day to day. And I honestly wouldn’t want to.

The dusty landscape created a haze that captured the fiery red of sunset. It’s quite a show. The whole world is cast in that glow, and as the Earth and everything on it is thrown into a silhouette version of itself, I settle in.

The van is parked just so—I have that blaze of fading sunlight as my view. And as night approaches I’m jotting something in one of the Moleskines. A thought. A phrase I caught in dinner conversation. Sometimes it’s a quick sketch.

And when I’m done I shut the notebook and replace my pen into the little leather loop. I fold closed the bourbon brown leather cover, and tuck the whole thing into my backpack. Tomorrow I’ll be right back. And more of our life out here will become ink on the page.

Life gets rough and rugged. And I like to walk.

Urban streets to mountain trails, I tend to range out as I go. And on this particular day I was pushing though a little used path that wound through the woods in Upstate New York. A forest that could, if it wished ensnare me and lose me to the world.

But I had a survival tool. A notebook, with pages to fill. And a pen, nestled and protected in its own leather sleeve. With those two things I might starve, I might be eaten by bears, but I would not go without the ability to express a thought.

Maybe one last thought before I go.

You have to protect what you love. And this sleeve helps me keep the ol’ instrument safe and ready to use at a moment’s notice, no matter how many bears are around.

Early morning, and it’s quiet. There’s a bit of moisture in the air, a bit of nip. Slightly chilly, so I zip my hoodie a little higher, regret the shorts and flip-flops a little more. And I watch.

A tiny, white dog is exploring, looking for a place to do her business. The stars look down on us like glowing voyeurs. And I sip from my coffee mug, letting good, black coffee remind me that the day isn’t so bad, even if it’s just getting started.

This mug is unique. But I’ve found one similar. And I’m betting that with the right coffee, the right morning, and the right dog, it feels about the same.

It had been a grueling few weeks. Close to a month, racing to the airport in the wee hours, catching the next flight to the next place. Sleeping in the next hotel. Just to get up and shake hands and chat with more strangers—about writing, about books, about the exhausting conference circuit.

I wasn’t sure which city I was in, until someone handed me the bag with all the swag in it. Blazoned on the side was the name of the conference, and the name of the city. Orlando.

Speaking to thousands of authors over a a month-long junket was both exhilarating and exhausting, but I was still on the hook for my work as usual. I still had to keep up with emails and other work. I still had to to do the writing.

That’s why I was so dismayed when the laptop crapped out on me.

Luckily, I had a Bluetooth keyboard and an iPhone. And the sheer will to make things work.

Standing my phone up in front of me, using it as a screen for the writing, I did all the things. All the work. All the writing.

I have always loved being able to write from anywhere, and anything that makes that possible is definitely a beloved part of my story.