I don’t remember the last time I took a vacation, a trip with no assignment, no work. I almost left my laptop behind this time, but I chickened out a few hours before departure.
We were fortunate to join my in-laws a couple weeks ago on the Big Island, Hawai’i, outside Kona. I don’t know I’ve ever taken a vacation as an adult. The closest probably is what I call “a beach day,” which doesn’t involve a beach so much as our terrace, an umbrella, me packing a bag full of magazines and books and drinks, then walking six feet from our living room to spend a couple hours in the shade, reading and napping.
This trip had all the proper equipment for a vacation. A lap pool in walking distance, off-limits to kids. A small beach with a small restaurant for sandwiches. I’d pack a bag each morning with coffee, water, a pair of books, notebook and pen, then walk to the pool, swim a bit, dry off, take out the notebook and write the date at the top of the page. And then try to figure out what the hell’s going wrong with the novel I’m writing.
Everything is going wrong with the novel I’m writing.
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