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Whatever book I’m working on, travel prompts thought. This was the most punishing of my self imposed itineraries heading back and forth across the Caucasus region, trailing in the wake of an eighteenth century ghost, but the further I went, the more the book changed. The amount of material grew, since as anyone who has traveled outside of Europe or the States knows, patience is required to move even small distances. Broken down cars, sleepless nights, trekking, spare parts and road blocks all end up combining to give you both time to think and time to write. As we traveled, I realized I was going to run out of space in my favorite note book (I’ve never changed my brand since my first book). When I look at the Caucasus notebook now, I can see my writing shrinking through the pages as the lack of space dawned on me. I then had to return to the beginning of the notebook to the empty backs of the covered pages, starting off again, only at half the size of the writing months I’d done before.