determine that it’s breezy, shady, close to an electrical
source, and has some comfortable seating options. Yes. This could work…
My eyes land on the French doors a few feet
away from where I’m standing. I set my laptop on the chaise longue, cross to
the doors, look around to make sure nobody’s watching, and peer through the
glass at the room inside. It’s a mirror image of my room in layout and a photo
negative of it in color scheme. The walls are painted a deep navy blue; the
baseboards and moldings are a medium gray. The floor’s kitted in gray wood
planks that are designed to look weathered, but I can tell from their sheen
that they’re smooth and un-splintered, perfect for skating across on sock-clad
feet.
Black and white photographs of various sizes
adorn the walls at differing heights. The ones I can see through the paneled
curtains that cover the door's glass panes seem to be abstracts of common beach
items (I think one is the inside of a conch shell and the other is an extreme
close-up of the frayed canvas wrap on an old-fashioned life preserver). Quite
artistic. The wooden furniture is painted in a high gloss to match the
baseboards and molding.
And the bed… Well, it’s a nice bed. Lower than
the one in my room. Platform base with a simple, rectangular headboard. Solid
medium-blue bedspread with wide navy border edging. But I don’t let myself look
at it for too long. It makes me feel squirmy, for reasons that I don’t even
want to explore.
Breathless, I scurry back to the chaise and
snatch my laptop bag. Nearly at a run, I find the closest set of stairs to lead
me down to the backyard, where I try unsuccessfully to catch my breath.
“Ahem.” I clear my throat repeatedly while I
swipe my bangs from my forehead and turn in circles, looking for an escape.
From what, I’m not sure, considering what I want to get away from is in my
head.
Never mind. Gazebo. Yes!
I lurch toward the white gingerbread structure
under the sprawling oak tree and almost trip up its three short steps to the
safety and seclusion it provides.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of coming here
before (especially before I looked through that door). I know it’s wired and
has electrical outlets, because Paulette snuck in while I was napping here yesterday
and plugged in a behemoth antique oscillating fan. It felt heavenly, and the
sound of the crashing waves mere yards away was a natural tranquilizer. I
probably would have slept through dinner and well into the evening if the
mosquitoes hadn’t chased me inside.
Now, I look around as if seeing it for the
first time. Yesterday, it was just a sweet sleep spot, with the wide padded
ledge ringing its inside perimeter and the lattice walls that simultaneously
conceal (although it hadn’t hidden me from Paulette’s view) and provide a fresh
cross-breeze. Today, I see it as more of a workspace, with a generous-sized
rectangular table in front of one side of the octagon’s padded ledges, several
electrical outlets embedded in the wooden floor, and a peekaboo view of the
ocean that should be compelling without being too distracting. Perfect.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I unpack
my laptop and the three-inch stack of paper that is the marked-up hard copy of
my manuscript from Lucas. Once I’m plugged in and booted up, I adopt the new
writing strategy I’ve been developing in my head during my lazy poolside
tanning sessions. It’s always been my habit—with school work, household chores,
and the various jobs I’ve held down to pay the bills while I’ve pounded out
this book—to tackle the toughest part of a job first and then work my way to
the easier, less taxing tasks. While that may make sense when it comes to
cleaning a bathroom, it’s not getting me very far with these revisions. As a
matter of fact, starting with the hardest job—rewriting the fire scene—is
overwhelming and defeating.
So I’ve been toying with the idea of starting
with the easy stuff
source, and has some comfortable seating options. Yes. This could work…
My eyes land on the French doors a few feet
away from where I’m standing. I set my laptop on the chaise longue, cross to
the doors, look around to make sure nobody’s watching, and peer through the
glass at the room inside. It’s a mirror image of my room in layout and a photo
negative of it in color scheme. The walls are painted a deep navy blue; the
baseboards and moldings are a medium gray. The floor’s kitted in gray wood
planks that are designed to look weathered, but I can tell from their sheen
that they’re smooth and un-splintered, perfect for skating across on sock-clad
feet.
Black and white photographs of various sizes
adorn the walls at differing heights. The ones I can see through the paneled
curtains that cover the door's glass panes seem to be abstracts of common beach
items (I think one is the inside of a conch shell and the other is an extreme
close-up of the frayed canvas wrap on an old-fashioned life preserver). Quite
artistic. The wooden furniture is painted in a high gloss to match the
baseboards and molding.
And the bed… Well, it’s a nice bed. Lower than
the one in my room. Platform base with a simple, rectangular headboard. Solid
medium-blue bedspread with wide navy border edging. But I don’t let myself look
at it for too long. It makes me feel squirmy, for reasons that I don’t even
want to explore.
Breathless, I scurry back to the chaise and
snatch my laptop bag. Nearly at a run, I find the closest set of stairs to lead
me down to the backyard, where I try unsuccessfully to catch my breath.
“Ahem.” I clear my throat repeatedly while I
swipe my bangs from my forehead and turn in circles, looking for an escape.
From what, I’m not sure, considering what I want to get away from is in my
head.
Never mind. Gazebo. Yes!
I lurch toward the white gingerbread structure
under the sprawling oak tree and almost trip up its three short steps to the
safety and seclusion it provides.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of coming here
before (especially before I looked through that door). I know it’s wired and
has electrical outlets, because Paulette snuck in while I was napping here yesterday
and plugged in a behemoth antique oscillating fan. It felt heavenly, and the
sound of the crashing waves mere yards away was a natural tranquilizer. I
probably would have slept through dinner and well into the evening if the
mosquitoes hadn’t chased me inside.
Now, I look around as if seeing it for the
first time. Yesterday, it was just a sweet sleep spot, with the wide padded
ledge ringing its inside perimeter and the lattice walls that simultaneously
conceal (although it hadn’t hidden me from Paulette’s view) and provide a fresh
cross-breeze. Today, I see it as more of a workspace, with a generous-sized
rectangular table in front of one side of the octagon’s padded ledges, several
electrical outlets embedded in the wooden floor, and a peekaboo view of the
ocean that should be compelling without being too distracting. Perfect.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I unpack
my laptop and the three-inch stack of paper that is the marked-up hard copy of
my manuscript from Lucas. Once I’m plugged in and booted up, I adopt the new
writing strategy I’ve been developing in my head during my lazy poolside
tanning sessions. It’s always been my habit—with school work, household chores,
and the various jobs I’ve held down to pay the bills while I’ve pounded out
this book—to tackle the toughest part of a job first and then work my way to
the easier, less taxing tasks. While that may make sense when it comes to
cleaning a bathroom, it’s not getting me very far with these revisions. As a
matter of fact, starting with the hardest job—rewriting the fire scene—is
overwhelming and defeating.
So I’ve been toying with the idea of starting
with the easy stuff
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