So, I’m on a writing spree in a beach hotel.
I come home Friday after happy hour, all happy and whatnot, only to find out that the electric company cut me off. I was two days late. TWO DAYS. And I didn’t have an old balance or anything; I had paid my last bill in full less than a month ago. I paid immediately. But, in a flex of the ‘we-are-machine-and-you-are-weak-and-helpless-pitiful-mortal-workerbee’ muscle, they don’t reconnect on weekends.
My thought process went something like this:
Brain:!@&#$^&@^! Ok, think. Too late to sort out tonight so just deal with it. Tomorrow you’re booked anyway … stay out really late? Go to Mom’s? Stay with a friend?
Muse: It’s off season. And you need to finish Seas anyway. Full moon. SUPERMOON. You are much overdue for some night beach moonbathing.
Brain: Indian Rocks.
View from my WIP is something like this:
My bff used to manage a condo out here, and she was able to use it when it wasn’t booked. We used to get to stay at the beach house free for weeks. Then the bubble burst, and now we have to pay for the view. A night here and there isn’t the same. I’ve really missed this strip. I love IRB.
This definitely falls under the blessings in disguise category. I’ve been working on an ocean themed collection for a few years. I don’t mean I’ve only been doing that. I do a pass, leave it for a while, come back, do another pass, leave it for a while. That sorta thing. I’ve holed up for days on end with laptop or notebook while Netflixing every ocean-related doc I could find, and then not touched it again for months. It’s pretty close to done, but I have always wanted to hole up in a beach hotel and just work on it with the sound of the waves. I don’t think I could have considered the collection done if I hadn’t done this. It’s as if I wanted to give the ocean a chance to offer input.
I walked down the beach last night and found a perfect circle in the sand. Sat down for a while under the supermoon. Got some equilibrium back. Oh, and about 5 more poems, including one creepy snippet that might actually be a story. Not sure yet.
Sometimes writing isn’t about following the writing rules. Sometimes it goes far deeper than that. At least for me.
There is a secret language spoken here
The voice of the mother whispers in wind and waves
Now I just need to convince the Arabs running this place to let me check out late. Assuming the elevator doesn’t kill me. (It looks and smells like it was made in 1972.) I guess after I head home I’ll take a leisurely lunch in one of the cute little seaside cafes, go check on the kitty just in case she got through the ten million water dishes I left her, then probably take the laptop to Starbucks or B&N for a few hours. I prefer writing in solitude but whatever. I guess I’ll be coffee shop writer girl for a day. I have one rough night to get through, and my power will be back on tomorrow.
Note of grr: Some idiots were out there with flashlights despite the fact that there are signs EVERYWHERE about it being turtle hatching season and to keep the shoreline dark.