A Month at the Beach to Write...

A promise from On Writer’s Block by Victoria Nelson, made in the context of giving oneself permission not to create, to take a planned break from writing: “The rewards of such deliberate procrastination, of complete and trusting surrender to the needs of that other side of the self, have been summed up by Eugene Delacroix: ‘When one yields oneself completely to one’s soul, it opens itself completely to one.’”

I'm writing about this promise because of what I’ve experienced here during my month on Emerald Isle, in the context of being both a writer and a compulsive overeater in recovery. My food has been highly imperfect, bordering on bingeing from time to time; I have gone to bed and waked without an alarm clock (for a month!); I have spent most of a month alone (except for 3 days with two of my sons, and 3 days with a good friend). I've been swimming at the local gym 26 of my 28 days here, but am a stranger at the gym, hardly ever have interaction with anyone else as all of us there are so intent on working out. During this four weeks of solitary time (not isolation, such a huge difference) I’ve learned that I am a social animal. I crave contact with others. This past Thursday night I went to a 12-step meeting in a nearby town where I knew I’d be just one of two or three (there were three of us), but went because I so craved contact with others. Many days it’s been just me and the ocean, the birds, occasional beach walkers and their dogs, and the bulldozer that's been dredging the beach (for ten days now, though it's blessedly quiet this morning...sitting out there on the strand, sleeping, and I find that I no longer dread it roaring to life...I can work or not as I choose, regardless of the dozer...MUCH progress). If I hadn’t left home to come here, I wouldn’t have read the three books on writing: The Faith of a Writer by Joyce Carol Oates, For Writers Only by Sophy Burnham, and On Writer’s Block by Victoria Nelson. I’ve learned something important from these books, ie, that all writers go through what I’ve been going through (even Stephen King, who writes 363 days a year, and who is fast becoming the most widely published and—one assumes—most widely read writer in history). All writers go through the dark night of the soul when the words simply won’t come. And in spite of the block, the dozers, the loneliness, I’ve written 50 pages in the past month here...mostly one or two at a time.

Last night as I lay in bed contemplating today—my last full day here—I found that in spite of yesterday’s tearful homesickness, I have mixed feelings about going back home. Yes, I want to see my husband and our cat, Stilla (my husband reports that Stilla is not herself, that she wanders the house in what seems discontent, demands much more of him than she usually does. I’m not surprised, she’s not getting her nightly scratching, isn’t falling asleep curled up next to me—and I’ve missed that more than I can say...wish I could communicate that to her). So I'll wrap up this messy post by saying I've survived and thrived here at the beach, and I go back home with about 105 pages of my new book. I'll wait a month or so (hope I can do that) before I read over the 50+ new pages. I can judge my work so harshly, and I think that letting the new stuff cool down will soften the way I regard what I've done here.

Was the month here worth it, and was it worth the $2000 or so it cost me? Beyond doubt, yes. Even with the bulldozers grating away at my peace of mind, the erratic helicopters flying by, rattling my little house in their wake, the distant thunder of bombs from the nearby military base, I've had more peace of mind here in a month than I get in a year at home. So the trick is going to be to take some of the peace with me as I wend my way across Eastern North Carolina tomorrow.

I'm not going to edit this...seems important to just let it flow and let it be as it came through my fingers.