Ready or Not, Here I Come!

melkhagelslag via Pixabay

I am counting down to the beach, and I couldn't be more excited.

Last summer, for the first time in a long time, we didn't go to the beach. I didn't get to brainstorm characters while sitting under an umbrella on the sand with the ocean just a few feet away. I didn't get to post my blogs from the screened-in porch. I didn't get to browse in my favorite indie bookstore.

But all of that is about to change. My fall break is coming, and so is my beach vacation.

Before you waste too much sympathy on my alleged beach deprivation, let me just say that we didn't go to the beach because we went to Ireland instead. My daughter spent a semester in Cork and so we spent spring break visiting her.  As much as I love my beach trips, I have to say that the tradeoff was more than fair.

But I'm ready.

I'm not a hot weather fan, so fall beach trips are right up my alley. I love bundling up under a blanket on the screened-in porch and I long ago traded in swimsuits for the more comfortable beach attire of shorts and a tee shirt, so upgrading to a sweatshirt isn't a big deal.

I'm a unlikely beach goer. I don't swim or surf and more than 20 minutes in the sun is too much for me. But I love to sit under an umbrella and read (or write) with the sound of the ocean as my background. And I love to sit out on the patio with my laptop or my journal (and, with few exceptions, I journal only at the beach) listening to the frogs in the creek below.

michalkirk via Pixabay

Right now, my clothes and toiletries are in their usual locations and my suitcase is still in the basement, but my journals are sitting out, waiting to be slipped into a bag and taken along for the ride. I have lesson plans to write and papers to grade, but these activities (which usually consume my thoughts) are merely hurdles to clear before I can depart for my desired destination. I will do them with the same level of dedication they usually demand, but I'll do so knowing that each task I complete takes me one step closer to that screened-in porch where I'll meet my characters and my deadlines.

I'm ready -- well, except for the grading and the planning and the packing.

But if mental preparedness counts for anything, I'm already there.

Beach Pages, Part 2

peterpauper.com

On Monday night, I found my Beach Pages journal, right where I expected to: on the back wall at Browseabout Books in Rehoboth Beach. Yesterday morning, I cracked it open, ready to write. The imprint inside announced it was published by Peter Pauper Press, a family press founded on the mission of creating "fine books that sold at 'prices even a pauper could afford.'" I made a mental note to check out the publisher and put the date on the first page.

Beach Pages, such a simple idea in theory, proved a little more challenging in execution. I was breaking in my new book not on the beach, but on the screened-in porch, which seemed appropriate  in its own way, if devoid of direct beach inspiration. It was good, in a way, as this pretty new book from Peter Pauper Press was protected, on its first day at least, from ocean breezes that whip the pages around as I write and the sea spray that curls them.

Yeah. No pressure here.

In retrospect, that little bit about the publisher in the front of the journal didn't make the task of filling blank pages any easier. The inspiration that had drifted in on the waves at the beach drifted back out again, intimidated by pretty covers and publisher names the where-is-this-going/what do you mean where-is-this-going-I-thought-we-were-just-having-fun duality that stymies many a relationship. What was I supposed to write about? Was this really a "good use of my time"? Was it okay to just be casual about this lovely book when it had the potential to be so much more?

But, by the end of my hour, I'd broken the book in and established a sense of what I want these pages to be. Reminding myself that the only rule was to "just write," I stumbled a few times, then found my stride.

Just like any other kind of writing.

Along the way, I discovered there's a process at work, even in Beach Pages. I use this word a lot when I write about organization, emphasizing that any progress is just that -- progress. Committing to an hour for my Beach Pages meant that there would likely be warm-up time, productive time and staring-into-space time. Sticking to the hour through the warm-up time and the staring-into-space time was the only thing that would get me to the productive time.

Just like any other kind of writing.

Quangpraha via Pixabay

Process popped up in another way, too -- as a verb. After burrowing into my writing tunnel, I need some time, when I emerge, to think about what it all means. When I closed the book today, my mind was still spinning, so I set a timer for five minutes and closed my eyes, just concentrating on my breathing and letting thoughts come and go (thank you, Headspace). The most insistent thoughts -- summaries, really -- warranted opening my eyes and jotting them down and suddenly I'd created a brief summary of contents.

Huh. That wasn't part of the plan. But apparently it's part of the process.

Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

Beach Pages

As photos go, this one's pretty bad. 
But as a metaphor, it's dead on,
vacation (Candy Kitchen) and
characters jockeying for position.

We're at the beach this week and, the first night we were here, my husband asked me what I wanted to do while we were down here. My answer was immediate and simple, if unimaginative: read, sleep and write.

We'll also go to the beach, of course (spoiler alert: I'll get one very sunburned leg because I drowned my husband in sunscreen then forgot to put said sunscreen on my own legs), and spend time out on the screened-in porch in the mornings and evenings, as well as going out to eat and probably doing some shopping. Then there are the chapters I'm supposed to be working on, and the tweets and posts for my #ChristmasinJuly promotion and...

Do you see what I just did? I took work on vacation. I can argue that, when it's something I enjoy doing, it's not really work but, that's not completely true. When deadlines and must-do's loom in my head, that's not pleasure. That's work.

Yesterday, on the beach, I watched an adorable toddler use the pole of a beach umbrella to pull himself up to standing and then look up in wonder at the underside of the umbrella. The psych professor in me went immediately to dynamic systems theory, the collision of opportunity and motivation, and Piaget's sensorimotor stage wherein the senses and physical capabilities guide cognitive development.

If you dozed off during the end of that last paragraph, that's okay. Better than okay, actually. I was at the beach, for heaven's sake. Why were dead developmental theorists there with me? Ditto blog posts and deadlines.

For me, vacation and writing are inextricably linked, particularly since the screened-in porch at the condo where we stay is my favorite place to write. But writing doesn't have to mean deadlines and, on vacation, it probably shouldn't unless I'm in danger of missing one.

So, yesterday, I inaugurated Beach Pages. Years ago, my former agent clued me in to Morning Pages,  a concept that just didn't click for me. It's a great idea, but I'm too impatient to carry it out, preferring instead to dig into the work I need to do (or, if I'm honest, procrastinate by easing slowly into the morning).

At the beach, however, it seemed like a great idea, but one I wanted to tweak. As a non-morning person, I prefer to ease into the day, especially when I'm on vacation. But, on the beach, I feel drawn to write. What better place is there for me to let my mind go free and to simply empty thoughts onto the page? Faced with seemingly endless stretches of sand and sea, why shouldn't I let my mind do likewise, moving beyond the boundaries of topics and chapters and deadlines?

And so, this week, that's what I'll do. Every serious goal needs a notebook, of course (at least if you're a stationery aficiando like I am), so last night, I went searching for one. Though there were contenders, I didn't find quite what I had in mind. Disappointing, but if a legal pad worked yesterday, I can press it into service again today. (Hmm...now I think I need a notebook with a pocket....)

There's only one rule to Beach Pages: write. Since I'm used to using writing sprints, I'm adapting them here. I grab my paper and pen (soon to be a notebook and pen), set my phone timer for an hour and write. About anything. Or nothing.

No rules. Just write. That's a vacation plan I can get behind.

Vacationing with my Characters

Pixabay

I spent last weekend at the beach and, as I sat on the screened-in porch (my favorite writing spot and second favorite inspiration spot), I began to wonder how my characters would spend a weekend at the beach. Charli would, no doubt, hit Grotto Pizza and spend lots of time at the beach on a boogie board. Or maybe she'd be more like my daughter, preferring the pool at the condo complex to the beach, lying out on the chaise lounges there until she got too hot and then jumping in the water to cool off again.

Nah. I see Charli as the beach type -- volleyball, boogie boards and maybe even a run by the ocean.

As for Marita and Bets, their agenda would depend on who was on the trip. Is it a girls' weekend or are they there with Charli? The days would be much the same either way, spent on the beach, preferably close to a lifeguard stand where they could scope out those in charge of keeping them safe -- purely a precautionary measure, of course, especially once Marita realizes the lifeguards are closer to Charli's age than hers. Talk about a reality check!

Bets' swimsuit of choice would be a bikini, of course, accessorized by a big hat and little-to-the-imagination cover-up. She'd skip the cover-up completely if it didn't complete the ensemble with the hat (protecting her fair skin) and all.

Marita
(Nordstrom)

Marita's suit of choice would be a one piece with enough cut-outs to show some skin -- something in black or a bright color (fuchsia, maybe?), just this side of a two-piece (which I now know is called a monokini....)

Angel
(Nordstrom)

Angel would definitely wear a one piece, too modest, especially now that she's a mom, to go any other way. If she'd gone shopping with Marita or even Jim, she might have come home with something like the suit at left. Otherwise, a traditional styling in a floral or a pastel color would most likely be her choice.

It's always fun imagining what my characters are doing outside the pages of the book, especially when I'm at work on another book they populate, as I am with Marita, Angel, Bets and Charli.

Genevieve, a character I'm in the midst of creating now for a book that won't get written for quite some time, is significantly older than Marita and Bets. She would grace the beach only in the early morning if at all, settling under an umbrella with a cup of coffee made from beans she ground herself. In her current incarnation, Genevieve is reclaiming the beach, a place she has assiduously avoided for decades.

Dressed in a classic black one piece.

Friday Feature: What the Beach Does to Your Brain

Happy Friday from the beach! My husband is in his happy place (on the sand by the ocean -- that's part 2 of my day) and I'm in mine, on the screened-in porch at the condo. We're staying in a different area of the complex from our usual spot, and I'm thrilled to report that the porch gets morning shade, making it cooler and more conducive to writing. I love coming here; few other places give me the same sense of serenity.

Are there really health benefits to coming to the beach, or is it all in our heads? As it turns out, it is more than a placebo effect and there are are definite benefits to being here. Read on to find out what the beach does to your brain.

As for me, I'm taking advantage of the creativity boost that comes from being right here, in this spot, before I hit the beach.

Happy Friday!

A Writing Home Away from Home

Kaboompics

I have decided that I need a beach writing retreat. There's something about the beach that routinely gets me unstuck. Maybe it's simply the change in location and daily routine. Maybe it's the feeling of endless possibility.

Maybe it's the fact that the only non-human distractions I have are the ones I intentionally bring with me. When I pack my bag with good books, fun magazines and everything I need to write, it's not hard to get inspired.

But, while I can rationalize paying for a week at the beach when it's a family vacation, or paying hundreds of dollars for a writing conference that gives me access to experts, I cheap out when it comes to planning a writing retreat, tossing out all sorts of obstacles: I have too much to do. I can't spare the time. My family needs me.

Now, though, as I sit on the beach writing this post, I wonder why I don't plan a retreat every year the way I plan a vacation. Set the dates. Make the plans. Save the money.

Why indeed.

Maybe this year is the year I'll do it. Choose the spot (done). Check the fees. Determine the cast of characters.

Three weeks ago, my nineteen-year-old planned a beach trip with her friends. How hard can it be?

I think perhaps it's time I found out. Writer friends, who's with me?

Have Notebook, Will Travel

Pixabay

Packing for the beach, I couldn't find my notebook. As a writer and stationery aficionado, I always have a notebook in progress -- that place where I write down all the miscellany that comes to me over the course of a day. Since my usual spiral-bound notebook has been supplanted by my summer notebook, the former has apparently been tucked away in a safe place, one that didn't spring to mind in the midst of my last-minute packing. Knowing I could not go to the beach for a week without a notebook, I grabbed an old notebook from the counter in my office and tossed it into my bag.

How old a notebook? The photo on the front is of my daughter -- the one who is now a sophomore in college -- at age nine. On the first page of the notebook was a list of summer plans -- camps, play dates, family vacation -- designed to stave off summer boredom, thereby maintaining Mom's sanity.

I don't miss those days. While I enjoyed our summers, it's also nice to have reached a stage where if she's bored, it's up to her to figure something out. That's a double-edged sword, of course, as whatever she figures out often involves car keys, gas money and perhaps a trip to a foreign country.

For the most part, I've embraced this growing-up process, encouraging her burgeoning independence. But lately, things like trips abroad and family vacations on her own terms have tested my carefully crafted Cool Mom facade. My mind grasps these changes and her readiness to tackle them head-on, but my heart is lagging behind.

It will catch up, I know, but in a world that's growing increasingly scary, my poker face is becoming harder and harder to put on. I have faith in my daughter, but now, more than ever, I understand my mom's retort that she trusted me, but not the rest of the world.

It's a refrain I echo to my daughter and to my husband (about my daughter). I want her to move forward boldly and fearlessly, but I also want her to do so intelligently, carefully and perhaps in a bulletproof wardrobe.

Pixabay

That's a pretty tall order for a nineteen-year-old -- especially one I remember so clearly as the nine-year-old on the front of my notebook.

The notebook served me well last week, giving me a place to write blogs and lists, as well as capturing random thoughts and ideas before they drifted off on the ocean breeze. And, while the young adult who accompanied us to the beach has come a long way from the little girl on the cover of my notebook, she was a wonderful travel companion in a completely different way.

In my office at home, I have a bin filled with the notebooks I've used over the years. Some don't make the cut; once all of their contents have been transferred to more permanent and specific homes, they end up in the recycling bin. I know this one will make the cut, though, more because of the little girl who graces the cover than for whatever remains inside. And this week, it earned its keep, even as it brought a little nostalgia along for the ride.

Beach Inspired, Part 1

Photo: Steve Hess

I love the beach, but I'm not a beach person per se.  I burn almost instantaneously (fry is, perhaps, a more accurate verb), so my idea of a day at the beach is a day spent under an umbrella, clad in shorts and a tee shirt, (and a hat, of course), slathered with 50+ sunscreen.

It's all about the ambience. While I prefer the shaded, screened in porch at our rented condo to the sand, I love the sound of the surf and the endless vista of water stretching out to the horizon at the beach. When the breeze is just right, it counterbalances the heat of the sun, convincing me there's no place I'd rather be. From my perch on a beach chair, with my feet in the cool sand, I can lose myself in a novel, jot down any inspirations that arise (yes, I always take a notebook to the beach) and usually craft a blog or two (at least). Writing, relaxation and vacation converge, creating a setting conducive to all the things I love to do, but never seem to get quite enough time for at home.

Although I can't imagine a permanent move to the beach, I dream of owning a condo just like the one where we stay each summer. I could visit every time I need a dose of the place that reframes the challenges of real life. Even in the off-season, I imagine I could get so much creative work done in my home away from home.

Then I wonder if having a place of our own down here would change the experience, injecting a little too much reality into my getaway mentality, tipping the scales out of my favor.

I think that's a risk I'm willing to take.

Ahhh.....

Pixabay

I am in my happy place.

Yes, I am posting terribly late. Yes, I barely know what day it is. But I am in my happy place.

As I type this, I'm sitting on a screened-in porch at the beach. It's 73 degrees, there's a slight breeze and, aside from a few too many flies, I have nothing to complain about.

It's been a whirlwind couple of weeks. A writing conference. My daughter's prom, end of classes and graduation. Her week at the beach. Her college orientation. Three graduation parties. A little bit of writing, a lot of packing and a house that looks as though someone shook it and turned it upside down.

But I'm not there. I'm here. At the beach. When I go home, there will be sorting and organizing and a return to real life -- perhaps even a schedule of some sort. I will get back into a writing routine, start thinking about fall classes, begin chipping away at the college shopping list. And, because it's summer, I'll also read, nap, relax and do everything on my list at a more relaxed pace.

When I get home.

For now, I am at the beach. On the patio.

In my happy place.

3 Rules for Parenting an Only Child

I revel in mornings on the patio.
My husband starts his day on the beach.

It's the last morning on the patio at the beach condo, and it promises to be a challenging one. The groundskeepers have been at it since before I was up, and the impact of freshly mowed grass on my allergies has already driven me inside once. Unlike last year, where we ended up with an out-of-commission bathroom for part of our stay, this year has been uneventful in terms of accommodations. Except for the omni-present mowers and trimmers outside our first-floor condo.

This week has been interesting for other reasons, though. Not only is it our first trip to the beach in several years without an additional teenager, we're also missing the one we usually have along in the first place. This is the longest trip my husband and I have taken by ourselves since before our daughter was born.

When you start your family at 36, you aren't expecting it to be a big one, and when you have just one child, you do some things differently. At least that's been my observation. Amid all of the usual parenting philosophies, I had three overriding goals:

1. She would not be spoiled.
2. She would be independent.
3. We would enjoy every minute with her, because no matter how long the days seemed sometimes, her declaration of independence would come sooner than we thought.

Whether or not we've achieved #1 is a matter of opinion. With no siblings, she certainly got more "stuff" and plenty of attention. She also got higher expectations for adult-like behavior and more scrutiny (for better or for worse), and more adult conversation, if only because she was outnumbered. But at 17, she has a good head on her shoulders, and as her teen years have progressed, any entitlement she might have felt as an only has begun to subside, as she scrutinizes the world around her and recognizes that she's got a pretty good life.

#2? Oh, yes. Absolutely. This one came much sooner than I expected and is the reason I'm sitting on a screened-in porch at the beach while she's on a university campus 100 miles away, getting a taste of the life that won't be fully hers for another year. A child of daycare, she learned separation early on. As a licensed driver, she's putting those lessons into action.

#3? Truly, which is part of what has made this trip so pivotal for all of us. The most difficult part was the anticipation, both delicious and heartbreaking in its possibilities. The week itself has been lovely, but different, a small taste of what lies ahead as she not only declares, but exercises her independence and my husband and I do the same. I can't wait to hear what her week has brought.

Photo: AcrylicArtist via Morguefile

So here I sit on the screened-in porch, coughing and sputtering stubbornly as the scent of freshly mowed grass wafts across the patio, aided and abetted by the ceiling fan. Tomorrow morning, there will be no screened-in porch to sit on, and so I refuse to give it up any sooner than I have to. I'm enjoying the moment, because to do anything less would be foolish.

Tomorrow morning, our family will be three again, at least for a little while. And I will revel in that for as long as I can.

Life's A Beach

Since we're spending today at the beach, I thought I'd share a"vintage beach blog" from May 2009, with a few updates.

I've been going to the beach since I was a little girl. Growing up in New Jersey, everyone went "down the shore" -- day trips, weekends, post-prom. You cold get away and enjoy the sunshine and ocean breezes without a passport or airline reservations; in fact, you could easily make the trip down and back in a day. It was a change of scenery, yet comforting and familiar.

Photo of Bethany Beach shoreline courtesy of my husband.
I'm not up early enough to take these shots. 

I always enjoyed going to the shore, even though I was never a beach person. I grew up in the era of bikinis and baby oil, but neither ever suited me very well. No amount of fragrant tropical preparations ever produced the promised deep, dark tan, and to this day, no sunscreen, hat or beach umbrella protects my skin completely from the inevitable "healthy glow" brought on by a day at the beach. Fortunately, I've learned from experience, so these days, I return home more carnation pink than lobster red.

These days, the beach is the Delaware shore, the family I travel with is my husband and my daughter, and our destination is a condo in the same complex we've stayed at for eight years. It's beautiful and spacious, with a loft that my daughter claimed as her own back when she was about seven. One summer, when she was anxious about sleeping up there alone, she rotated between her "apartment"and the downstairs guest room. The following summer, she displayed no such hesitancy, having grown fond of the television that sat at on the dresser at the foot of bed, and succeeding summers brought the addition of teenage traveling companions that kept things fun and lively for all of us.

The condo is a far cry fro the places I stayed at the Jersey shore when I was young. Back then, it was a hotel efficiency with an outdoor pool (my husband, daughter and I did that one summer as well); later on, my accommodations were the top floor of a beach house belonging to my high school boyfriend's grandparents. Both were grand places as far as I was concerned, because I was down the shore, surrounded by family and friends.

Photo: DMedina via Morguefile

Now, as I lay back in my beach chair, I realize that other things have changed, too. The scents of coconut and sea spray are still ubiquitous, but if someone lights a cigarette, heads turn to sniff out the source. Beautiful, bikini-clad bodies, many with piercings in places too painful for me to contemplate, still decorate tropical-print beach towels, but now a rainbow of umbrellas surrounded by a covers the shore. In some places, there are even tents and canopies, providing shade and respite for babies, grandparents and sun-sensitive people like me. The surf still pounds -- powerful and rhythmic -- now unaccompanied (mostly) by the bass of competing radio stations. Instead, personal music devices of every ilk supply individualized accompaniment to beach goers as they read, nap and sunbathe.

This summer, we're in a first-floor unit for the first time. Like the ones we're used to, it's spacious and has the screened-in patio that I love. There's no loft, though, and if my daughter were traveling with us, she and her friend would be in a room with a trundle bed. Not sure how that would go over. My guess is that they'd probably just take over the living room, which would have ruled out the chair-hopping I did last night from the love seat with my iPad to the reading chair with my book, much like Goldilocks, or my daughter the summer she wasn't so sure her "apartment" was for her.

Like daughter, like mother.

Photo: pippalou via Morguefile

I always knew that when I retired, writing would be a big part of my life. I looked forward to the day when I could unapologetically devote long stretches of time to writing books, articles, blogs...whatever genre the muse bestowed when she visited.

But I never thought about the subtle differences that would emerge once I began to take my writing seriously enough to dub it a profession. Calling myself a writer seemed so audacious that the title brought with it a compulsion to produce, and it wasn’t long before I discovered that the muse played a very small walk-on role in the life of a serious writer. 

Inspiration is important, certainly, but writing, like any other profession, requires that the writer possesses the dedication to show up and do it, even on the days when the process isn’t easy. Just as good teachers need lesson plans to flesh out their inspirations, good writers need writing plans to develop the ideas the muse provides.

But a funny thing happened on the way to becoming a professional writer: it became increasingly difficult to “leave my work at the office.” 

freepik.com

The weekend before last, for example, we were at the beach. I sat in a beach chair under an umbrella on a perfect beach day, with a bag full of magazines and a fully loaded Kindle. I had come prepared to read (and nap) without feeling guilty for not being productive. What was the first thing I pulled out of my bag? A notebook.

I have to write. Not because I’m under a deadline or even because a story is nagging at me (well, maybe a little of the second one) but because it’s a day that ends in “y”.

I’m not being a smart aleck. On days when I don’t write, or at least do something writing-related, I feel as though something is missing. I’ve been at this long enough and I have so many projects and ideas floating around in my head that there never seems to be enough time to tackle them all. 

When I don’t write, I feel as though something is missing; the day feels sort of off-kilter until I get some writing time in. I wish I felt this way about exercising or cleaning or cooking, but I don’t. Only writing.

And so when I pack for the beach -- or any other vacation -- I pack a notebook, and on this last trip, for close to an hour on beach days, I scribbled away, trying out a “beach sprint” in longhand. These entries will most likely become blogs (some, like this one, already have), and I will feel productive because I have them written ahead of schedule, but that is beside the point. Before I can read or nap or any of the myriad other things to be done at the beach, I must write.

A theatre friend of mine liked to say that we act because we must. Actors can’t not act. 

And writers can’t not write. Admittedly, some of our writing gets hidden away in a desk drawer or computer file; sometimes it’s the clutter we need to cut through to get to the idea inside. Those writings are a writer’s rehearsal -- not quite ready for an audience, but necessary to the writing process. 

And though it makes little sense to those who don’t share a passion for writing (and is, in fact, a source of irritation when it creeps into family time or vacation time), writing, for writers, is like eating and breathing and sleeping -- so much a part of who we are that we are unable to function when we go for long periods of time without indulging ourselves. 

We don’t know how to be any other way.