It’s been a pretty chill week. While I go the the Farmer’s Market and do other grocery shopping for the week on Mondays, my Tuesday-Friday schedule has been pretty consistent: Wake up, walk on the beach while listening to a book or podcast, update journal, work out, eat breakfast, write or edit, eat lunch, write or edit, walk on the beach while listening to book or podcast, write or edit, shower, Netflix or read, dinner, Netflix, bed. I’m spending about 4 hours a day writing new material or editing old stuff. Saturday and Sunday are spent reading on my back porch, listening to the ocean, boats, and people on the beach. Today, I was told about the “Gypsy’s Market” that takes place every 2nd Thursday of the month, in the same location as the weekly Farmer’s Market. It’s hard to think about another 5 mile walk this week, having just completed my Monday trip. But there will be handcrafted items like jewelry and art, and this could be a welcomed change of scenery in a couple days. If I go, you’ll be sure to hear about it. 

In case you missed my Facebook post last week, I love this house so much, I’ve already booked it for January and February 2022! This place has been SO much better for me than Miami was last year. When I get back, I’ll have to start playing the lottery so I can buy a Mexican beach house of my own some day. Or I could just save the money I’d spend on tickets and put them in my beach house fund. It may take me 20 years to get that piggy bank filled up. I only have a couple of pictures this week. After 5 weeks here, I continue to be amazed at the piles of empty and perfect conch shells littering the beaches. I’m not much of a shell collector, so I leave them for others. I continue to find a few pieces of sea glass every day. I don’t think I can carry 10 pounds of glass home with me, so before I go, I’ll have to weed out all of the less than perfect pieces. I’ve been watching more Netflix:

-The Crown (Season 4)

-The History of Swear Words 

-Community (Seasons 1 and 2)

-Evil Genius

-Don’t F*** With Cats 

-The Keepers

-The Staircase. 

Yes friends, I am the stereotypical middle age white woman who’s fallen down the murder porn rabbit hole. Since Tim detests true crime shows, I’m binging them while I can. Shouldn’t this creep me out since I’m living here alone? Maybe, but it doesn’t. I watch a couple episodes of Community to lighten up the mood before bed.  I’ve also finished a few more books:

-Willa’s Grove by Laura Munson

-Draft No 4 by John McPhee

-The Writing Life by Annie Dillard

-Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

-On Writing by Stephen King

-Planting Native by Sharon Sorenson

Most of you know I make an effort to praise what I love and avoid trashing what I hate. I only enjoyed reading the last 3 books on that list, and the King and Lamott books were rereads. I forced myself through the John McPhee and Annie Dillard books about writing. I fail to see why these books are so highly regarded. McPhee had a few nuggets of wisdom, but I had to wade through lots of name dropping, reminders on every other page that he’s written for Time magazine and The New Yorker, and such long-winded setups of his stories I forgot what aspect of writing he was trying to illustrate. I mean, the man wrote an article for The New Yorker on oranges that was 40,000 words long…and was indignant that the editor had the audacity to remove 85% of the story to make it fit in that week’s issue. GET TO THE POINT, MAN. Dillard believes writing is a painful, arduous, and miserable process. I kept thinking, “Then why do you write? Why don’t you do something that makes you happy?” In Dillard’s opinion, not only is writing excruciating, there are very few brave souls who should accept the challenge, she being one of them; oh how she suffers for her art. I’m sorry, but how is this supposed to inspire me? What makes you believe you’re chosen for this profession and that the rest of us shouldn’t even bother? 

Lamott and King may not be elite literary scholars, but they’ve sold millions of books, so they’re obviously doing something right. They both acknowledge that most of us could write, and lots of us may even be good at it. Though most of us will never get a book deal, just the act of putting pen to paper can be fulfilling enough if we love to write and desire to learn how to make our words soar off of the page. I have no time for writers who make me feel like I’m a worthless piece of poop pursuing a fruitless endeavor. I’ll take my advice from people who know they don’t corner the market on being published writers and are eager to help us join their club. 

I am stepping down from my soapbox now and going for a walk on the beach.