“I’m a lost cause,” I mumble to myself as I walk along the beach toward home. Coco just looks back at me with those sad eyes, then turns forward again and keeps walking.
“Great, now even my dog thinks I’m a hopeless case. My life is a mess.”
The sun is starting to creep a little higher in the sky now as the day is waking up. Looking up towards the houses, you can see more activity and cars on the roads, everyone going about their morning routine. Although the sun is rising, there are clouds starting to build. They might look light and fluffy now, but that tinge of gray in them tells me they aren’t going to be as innocent as they seem.
Walking up the bank of grass on the sand dune towards my house, I take a breath. My life might be a mess, but this is my sanctuary. My little house on the beach where I can be me and then let my imagination run wild.
After coming through the gate to the yard, I lean down and take off the lead from Coco’s collar and give her a pat and hug her. She might drive me crazy, but I do love her and know she is the one who keeps me from going insane. Living on your own can be lonely. No matter how many characters are talking to me in my head, human interaction is what I crave. Or to be more accurate, I miss the feeling of being touched. Not even intimately, just the regular cuddle, holding hands, or even the stupid thump in the arm of a friend joking with you.
It’s the life I walked into back then, but some days I wonder why.
Coco’s wet nose gives me nudge on the back of my leg to remind me I promised breakfast, and instead I’m standing here on the porch daydreaming again.
“Okay, girl, let’s get you some food and I can get on with my workday.” Her wagging tail tells me she approves.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling my wet hair up into a ponytail, my mind is already in work mode. A plot twist has just come to me in the shower, and I want to get in front of the computer and get it down. It’s the strangest thing being an author. It’s my mind, and even I don’t understand how it works. The storylines that come to me happen at the strangest times. Not always in one go, either. Sometimes it builds slowly, and I know the ideas of what the book is about, then bam, it hits. The pivotal scene or the whole story starts playing my head. Or I see one character and their storyline, and the other is hiding from me.
No wonder I’m a loner. How do I expect people to understand me when I can’t even work out my thoughts some days?
One thing I know, though, is by the time I pull a book together, there are people out there in this world who can make sense of my jumble, and luckily for me, come back for more.
Opening up my computer, I quickly jot down the scene for the plot twist, so I don’t lose it.
“Right, now where was I up to?” Yeah, talking to myself is another sign I’m certifiably insane.
“You know exactly where you are up to, you idiot. They are about to have sex. Why do you think you were dreaming about surfer boy this morning, talking dirty to you?” Rolling my eyes at myself seems a waste of energy, but hey, that’s what us creatives do.
Coco lets out a snore from at my feet. The big energetic dog that wouldn’t stop running this morning has left, and in her place is the lazy lump that spends most of the day lying next to me while I lose myself in my book.
When I moved to North Carolina a year ago, I had no idea what my future held in store. Taking the leap and releasing my first book that I had written years before was the scariest thing I’ve done in my life. And let me assure you, I’ve done some scary things before now.
Three books later and I can’t stop.
Writing is my addiction.
“Okay, time to turn the heat up on my couple and finally let the tension bubble burst.” My fingers start dancing over the keys at a speed I never imagined I had. It’s like they have a mind of their own. The clicking noise of the keyboard is what calms my mind. I know that the words are flowing, and the story is coming together before my eyes. I’m lost in my own world, and it’s the safest place for me to be.
Hours pass when I’m writing, and sometimes I have no idea how many hours until I hear my stomach start voicing its disgust that it has been neglected again. Looking up from my screen, I realize I’ve been totally engrossed in my book and the day has been passing me by. It shouldn’t surprise me, because it happens on a regular basis.
Coco must sense my change of movement, as she rises slowly from her sleeping spot. I really need to set an alarm on my phone to make me get up and move more often. My body feels stiff as I start walking towards the kitchen to find food. Not sure what I feel like eating, I’m standing at the fridge door open, just staring in at all the food, hoping that something jumps out at me. I can hear my mother’s voice in my head.
‘Don’t stand there with the door open; get what you want and get out.’
Yet here I am twenty-nine years old and still doing the same thing.
Nice try, Mom.
I settle on the porch swing, eating my blueberries and yogurt, and the wind has picked up since this morning. It’s still hot and steamy, enough that you feel that sheen
