I recently crept away for a five-day sabbatical in my uncle’s condo in Myrtle Beach. It was blissful in the fact that I was cut off from my daily responsibilities and business-related email.
For five days I did nothing but read and write.
And eat peanut M&M;’s, cuz I do that when I write.
My brother happened to stop by my place, and when I told him of my trip, he said “You went by yourself?!?”
I love my brother. Hell, I even like my brother. But he (and the totality of my family of origin) really have no concept of the artistic personality. They’re supportive, they love me, but they just can’t hold up their end of a conversation on the matter. My brother, had he been forced to endure five days in solitary, but beachy, confinement would’ve parked his ass at the nearest bar and remained in a state of total inebriation until he had to pack up for home.
I, on the other hand, relished every stupid little moment of silence. No phone ringing, no dogs bugging me to go out, nobody harassing me for reviews or packages – I wanna go back! I sat on the front deck and painted my toenails while having lunch and reaching Nick Hornby one day.
You hear stories of folks who manage to write the all-american novel during their lunch breaks, but I’m obviously not one of them. I need space, physical and psychic in order to create, and I’m finding the hectic nature of my day to day existence isn’t getting it done. I’m too busy freaking out about money, about shedding dogs, holiday obligations and why-the-hell-is-my-stove-making-that-noise??
I’ve been home for two weeks and I want nothing more than to throw my stuff back in the car and go back. If I could stay for a month, two months, I think I would.
I understand now why people go to monastaries.