I was gone for the weekend to visit a dear friend (and good writer) at the shore.
From her porch I could see the great Atlantic rolling on, and the horizon looked so curved I didn’t know how anyone could have ever said the world was flat.
My friend always writes at night, and I never knew why.
Now, of course, I understand. A computer is far too small a thing to look at when an ocean is practically underneath your nose.
(Maybe that’s why sea-captains only keep logs? After all, Melville wrote Moby Dick when he was dry-docked, and working as a file clerk. I wonder how many great sagas were written at sea? I’d say none. Correct me if I’m wrong.)
And that classic bucolic scene with a poet lying on some grassy sward, and writing?
I don’t believe it.
Of course, everyone has a favorite reading place and writing space.
I can read or write in a plane, train, or automobile. Or while children are playing right next to me. That’s just noise and doesn’t distract me, because words transport me.
But I can’t concentrate when Nature is showing off. Not near blue lakes or bubbling streams or vast oceans, of course. Nor in a clover filled meadow.
My favorite places to read? On a couch in the living room, or at the kitchen table, while sitting on a hard chair.
NEVER in bed, because that makes any book a sleeping pill, at least for me.
Sorry I couldn’t come up with a more sensational topic, or question.
But I just got back for staring at a wide blue sea, and obviously, my mind is still there…