Processing Capacity

“Susan, you only have so much processing capacity. Give yourself a break.”

I stared at my friend Andy and laughed across the table.

We were sitting in a coffee shop in Helensburgh last week, catching up on life. I met Andy on a distillery tour here in Scotland three years ago, and we haven’t stopped talking since. He is passionate about single malt, and he is also a crack photographer.

So when I spent two days with him in the Trossachs, it was natural that we ended up talking about photography: our current efforts, a project he is working on, and then, as I sipped my cappuccino, my lament that most of my photos on this trip are what the Brits would call “shite.”

I loved having my camera in hand every day on my U.S. road trip. It became a familiar companion, and I learned so much about its capabilities while looking forward to reviewing my photos in the evening, reliving the day, and celebrating the good shots.

That hasn’t happened on this European adventure.

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I know every trip is different. But I also know travel is the one time I consistently have my camera in hand, learning and experimenting in ways that are deeply rewarding.

There are days when I don’t pull out the digital camera at all and simply rely on my iPhone. I may go three or four days without downloading and reviewing my photos, choosing which to share, and tagging others to return to after the trip. And beneath the disappointment in my photography was a familiar discomfort: the sense that I was falling short.

I was explaining all of this when Andy made his point: we all have limits, and mine had been filled with other things.

“But I am on the road. There is less to focus on than when I am home. Of course I have time for photography.” And then, because I am me, I got a bit cheeky (as the Brits would say). “Besides, I don’t have limits,” I said with a smile.

Andy smiled back, not ready to give up.

“You’ve been in four foreign countries, dealt with three foreign languages, and had to make constant decisions about where to go and stay.”

I thought about it. There are days when traveling seems like work—decisions to make, things to negotiate. Not bad work. But not a resort vacation either. And recalling my total confusion when talking to a Glaswegian on holiday the day before, I think it’s been four foreign languages.

It was all true. And it occurred to me then that something else is different on this trip.

I am publishing a weekly essay.

Without fail.

As we sipped our coffees, I took stock of the past nine weeks and the past year.

Every Sunday since March of last year, I have published an essay. Fifty-four essays and counting. Even during this trip.

I didn’t do that during my U.S. trip. I said I would, but at best I got something out into the world every two to three weeks. And I certainly didn’t do it when I returned and theoretically had more time. Until last March, the essays had dwindled, often spaced months apart.

Each of these essays takes hours to write. Sometimes I begin, fiddle with one for a while, then throw it out and start over.

That realization was worth another cappuccino, and I talked it through with my friend. Last year, launching my Substack and promising the world I would show up every Sunday felt a bit like a New Year’s resolution. And we all know how those turn out. But one year later, that lofty intent is now a habit. I can’t imagine a week without publishing, except, of course, when the Blue Car kindly takes over.

I am proud of this weekly discipline, and it takes considerable time and focus. I drive the Blue Car and leave voice notes to myself, exploring ideas and noting what intrigues or baffles me. I show up for my weekly writers’ group on Zoom even while I am on the road. I am still working on my memoir and still figuring out what a book of Blue Car essays might become.

Most importantly, I have achieved a broad goal I set for myself last year: I am living a writer’s life.

I wasn’t sure what that meant at the time, but it has grown and evolved: reading, attending online workshops and in-person writing retreats, producing lots of shitty first drafts. The time and the mental focus this takes occupy space that might otherwise hold other interests and goals. And that has been intentional.

Suddenly, the hundreds of “shite” photos on my camera don’t look so bad.

Photography is on the list of things that bring me joy, something I want to continue exploring and improving. And I can’t do that right now in the full-on way I would like while traveling and continuing to write.

But this isn’t really about photography.

My impatience with my photos harkens back to a time in my life when I believed I could do everything. There always seemed to be space for one more promise, one more project, one more yes. It was how I scrambled out of a small, insular childhood to be the first in my family to attend college. It was how I moved beyond the borders of familiarity into a larger world than I had ever imagined.

It seems some habits die hard. Feeling shame about saying no, about not being able to balance it all and add one more thing to my list, has been a consistent trap for me. But I know now that if everything is a priority, then nothing is.

My inability to focus on photography is not a failure. It is the natural consequence of choosing to give my attention elsewhere. And recognizing this limit opens new possibilities.

A picture may be worth a thousand words for some, but at this point in my life and on this journey, my writing is a better record of this trip than the photos.

Just like the Intentional Camera Movement images I shared last week, I am more interested in documenting, reflecting on, and dissecting how I feel. Right now, writing is the best way to make sense of the world.

I am almost halfway through my road trip adventure. This morning, I am at a café in Grasmere writing this, one of a few cafés—third places—that have attracted my business this week in England’s Lake District. Slow time to write, a chance to talk with people, to see the same faces from day to day.

For the first time since picking up the Blue Car in Le Havre, I have stayed in one place for an entire week. I have a tiny apartment above Lake Windermere and, at the end of the day, a path down to the jetty where I can sit and watch the light shift across the hills.

I needed this pause more than I realized. Not because the trip has been too much, but because it has been full in the most wonderful way: new roads, new beds, new languages, new decisions, and, every week, the work of turning experience into essays.

That takes something. Attention. Energy. Processing capacity.

I am finally learning not to be ashamed of that.

My photos may not be as good as I hoped. Some are merely good enough. But every Sunday for nine weeks, on the road and far from home, I have sat down and made sense of my days in words.

For years, I thought it was a badge of honor to be able to do everything. Now, even though it took a conversation with a friend to remind me, I know that the real honor, the real thing to be proud of, is identifying what matters most and letting that be enough.

Susan

Blue Car Road Trip Miles: 3,134

From the Blue Car Europe Series