My friend asked if I wore sweats on my international flight to Malta.
I did not.
|Writerly = Being Published?|
In that increasingly inaccurate vision, I needed to look the writerly part. So, I wore a button down shirt and cargo pants with my urban hikers. Of course, that was without knowing I’d be hiking three miles across parking lots in a mad dash to make my flight.
Nothing says “writer” like an American soaked in sweat on a 15-hour plane flight.
International plane rides are just like domestic flights, only longer. This means most everyone wants to be left alone, to read, play Candy Crush, sleep and have the flight attendant pick up their garbage in a timely fashion.
No one asked if I was a writer or if I had a pending book release.
|Those knights sure knew how to make a cross!|
Then I tried to find some in Malta. My first thought was get the St. John eight-point cross. Not as effective as a claymore, but easier to get through security. Again, utter failure.