I’ve written often about writing at the beach, and how I would never have two finished books to my name without our humble family bungalow. And yet, I don’t pull massive word counts on every beach trip.
In fact, since our first pandemic summer, I haven’t written much there at all.
My two most recent trips have been to get together with my dad and help with the house more than anything. This feels fine. I’m finally getting more time in the office. My life finally has a more predictable structure after two years of upheaval. My current project is in end-stage revision mode and I appreciate having two monitors and a desk more than a laptop and solitude.
Plus, I don’t take time with my parents for granted. I spent the pre-vaccine phase of the pandemic worrying, wondering when I’d get the call and what I’d do if one of them got seriously ill. They both worked frontline jobs and had risk factors and because of that we hardly saw each other for over a year.
To have some semblance of a normal life at all, let alone take a break from that life to go to the beach and take my dad out to dinner, is a privilege worth pausing to enjoy.
So what does this writer do while visiting their favorite writing spot and not writing?
Well, I still found stories. One has to wonder what inspired this bit of sand art on the seawall.
Winter is a brooding, stormy time at the beach. Sometimes I wish I knew where some of the things I find in the sand came from. What stories carried them into the sea? How far did they travel? What current brought them to the sand beneath my feet? This weekend I found magnolia leaves, burnt wood, birch roots, lots of small clam shells and unbroken scallops.
Also, roses. Surely there’s a story behind those.
Also, the moment someone stopped to stick a single one into the stand.
I took a long skate around the north end of the island. Skateboarding is great exercise, and also an opportunity to watch the world go by and sort through my thoughts.
During my various walks, I took notes about living in a Jersey shore town in the off season. This will be the setting of my next novel. Little observations on sensory details help a lot.
Back at the house, I tidied and swept the garage. Putting physical spaces into order prepares me to put my thoughts and my creative projects into order.
I also took some time to read on the little couch beneath the living room window while the sinking sun cast its rays down our street. I finished The Paper Palace, a book that also heavily features a beach town with deep ties to the narrator’s personal history. The writing and voice are great. I couldn’t put it down. The story is very challenging at times. Definitely felt like a trauma plot. I’ll have to chew on this one for a while before I completely know how I feel about it.
Before I knew it, it was time to head home. Hopefully I can plan an honest-to-goodness writing retreat before too long, but I need a big drafting project first. For now I’ll stick to mostly working in the office and taking breaks outside it. Boring, maybe, but after the past few years sometimes boring is good.
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