We’re on holidays.
The sun is shining, the sand is hot, the water is warm and the jellyfish, so far, are keeping their distance. We go snorkeling and see stingrays gliding along the sand and schools of fish of all sizes, and in the evenings we watch the sun set over the water. Bliss!
It’s the perfect opportunity for me to do some writing, and each afternoon I pull out my computer for a good hour or so of novel-writing, free from the demands of my dissertation (those teetering stacks of academic papers and books crying to be read and then digested), free from family/house and teaching, and, crucially, free from the internet.
My husband asked me if I was sure I didn’t want to leave my computer at home but I just looked at him in horror. Two weeks without it? Was he insane? How could I leave it behind when I itched to have the opportunity to write just for the sheer pleasure of it?
I sit on our balcony overlooking the ocean, my feet sandy and my brain wonderfully clear, and each day I pick up where I left off the day before, which, let me tell you, is a small miracle right there, my friends.
Ah, holidays.
Kate Paine writes...a novel called The Tank 