Writing from the Beach

I’ve been writing since I was nine, and throughout this long, often rocky, career, I’ve always dreamed of writing in a house near the beach. I imagined a cold, winter beach, where I was the only person on a long stretch of sand. For me, staring at a stretch of water, preferably one that crashes and roars, gives me permission to write the stories that have rattled around in my head every day of my life.

When I chased grasshoppers in the empty lot across the street from the projects where I grew up, I longed for those days when my father would pile all of us into the Buick for a ride to Revere Beach. There, I could breathe. We dug up clams, searching on the wet, hard sand for the telltale bubbles at the surface, digging quickly to find the littlenecks as they burrowed their way under us. But, to be honest, I always thought my dream was unattainable. I’m a writer, after all. A mid-list writer who makes ends meet by teaching in an MFA program and taking on editing/coaching clients. That means I usually make very little from my own writing. Instead, my hours are full, and I work all day, every day, on other people’s work. The dream of writing novels and keeping sandy shoes by the back door has been pushed further down on my bucket list.

Still, I dreamt.

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Then, the pandemic came, and everything changed. (I know that sentence I just wrote is probably already a cliché.)

I watched as the world crumbled around us and realized that I had no guarantee of next week, never mind years in the future. We spent six months in isolation, and during that time, my partner and I talked about our own individual dreams. His was to buy a house; mine was to write on the beach. So, I sold him my house and moved to the beach. With no safety net.

Eudora Welty said, “Feelings are bound up in place, and in art, from time to time, place undoubtedly works upon genius…. It may be that place can focus the gigantic, voracious eye of genius and bring its gaze to point.” I believe that what she meant is that place is not only an effective tool in developing a piece of writing, but that place, in reality, has an effect on each of us.

Moving to a new place means upending your life, and when that place is filled with furniture and kitchen items that belong to someone else, it takes a bit of getting used to. At first, I felt like I was on vacation. Tourists still roamed the streets, the hot North Carolina end-of-summer luring them to the beach. I had company, I settled in, and I started editing a novel which is, ironically, about traveling and how we bring a piece of us to every place we visit. It was the perfect project to work on in my new place. Still, I felt like an imposter. I was now that “writer who lives on the beach.”

I couldn’t believe it.

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Three months later, it’s better than I ever imagined. I’m home. Walking the sand every morning with my dog, Izzy, is soul-cleansing. I’ve found a yoga group and take classes three times a week. My bike, fondly named Ruby, is a 40-year-old relic with a Hawaiian fabric-covered basket, a true beach bike with no speeds or hand brakes. Since I’ve been here, I’ve worn out one pair of Sperry sneaks, and keep at least six pairs of flip-flops in a basket at the door. I recognize people when I shop at Publix or at the Holiday Golf Cart Parade. I smile every time I drive over the bridge that separates the island from the mainland, that moment when I can see the Cape Fear River below me and the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. I heave a huge sigh every time.

My move to the beach came at a perfect time in my life. Not only has my anxiety level decreased, but my physical body has become stronger. And looking out the window at that little slice of ocean, well, it never gets old. I’ve gotten into the habit of taking a photo at the same place every day, and I began a daily seaside meditation that my Facebook friends seem to really enjoy.

A couple of weeks ago, a writer colleague of mine, Nancy Christie, asked me to join her podcast to talk about how setting affects both the writer and the writing. Talking to her about my dream and about how I accidentally backed into it made me realize how genuinely lucky I’ve been that all of the pieces fell into place and paved the way to the beach. I don’t take that lightly (though I remember all the years I struggled to make ends meet, sometimes eating a can of beets for dinner, and how hard I’ve worked for the joy of having my words end up between book covers), and I find myself grateful every day.

Though the recent uptick in cases has caused me to isolate even more than earlier this year, I don’t feel alone or anxious. I am happy to do my work here at my rehabbed desk, where I can look out the window at the squadrons of pelicans, sometimes 50 or 60 at a time, as they stream by, barely skimming the tops of condo buildings that line the beach. If work becomes stressful or I’m missing someone, a walk on the sand releases the tension and reminds me that the world is bigger than we are. We are merely mortals.

No matter how much I travel, the place that moves me most is a stretch of ocean, no matter where it is, and it seems that this particular place, this beach, the town, the island itself, is where I’m supposed to be.

Peace to you all.

D