Writer Adrift

24 November, 2012
I was adrift in several ways for the two nights before Thanksgiving at the Washington coast. I always intend on writing when I go to the coast, but am learning that it is much harder to do when I go with my little family (partner and two pups). As if that wasn't obvious. Duh. It's mainly my fault. I feel lazier, enjoy playing with the pups, watching movies, etc. I did get some time at the table next to the window, watching the waves, rain, and wind . . . writing. It was great. Didn't get a lot of words on the page, but the content was important, and I got my information organized. Getting myself to start writing seems like a straight line. Go to computer. Open document. Write. But it's not that easy. The straight line bends and weaves the minute I step onto it.
The feeling of not being able to start is like being adrift. Adrift in the world, in my life, in time, in the room. It's always a relief to have gotten several pages written in one session, but it's a special kind of relief to get past that uncomfortable point of simply beginning. Like pushing through a slightly resistant membrane.
We stayed at Adrift Hotel in Long Beach, Washington. A building rich in atmosphere, many cozy spots in the lounges and lobby where a writer could open her computer and write. Damn that memory foam king sized bed  and six pillows fully expecting me to relinquish control to them. The weather was perfect, stormy, sunny, stormy, sunny. Over and over the clouds rolled in and to the north (!). The couple of days before our trip, there were 100 mph winds and torrential rains causing downed trees and floods. The 4-mile long bridge from Astoria, Oregon to Washington was closed because of a flipped semi, and Route 4 on the Washington side was closed (detoured to who-knows-where) due to a mud slide, so the trip was iffy, but successful in the end. Whew. We traveled during a calm in the storm, and the bridge had opened by then. Life in the Pacific Northwest.
I think that I'm changing from a night owl to an early riser. It feels cockeyed, adrift-like, to crave getting up with the sun to write. But I want it, I think. Now I just need to get my body to agree.