What we say is I love you. What we say is leave the windows open while we sleep. What we say is the water is cold, but the sun is warm and is there still sand on your feet. Sometimes I don’t feel lucky enough to be this lucky. Like it might run out if I look at it too hard, or write about it too honestly.
All I do all summer is eat peaches and count words. Drink cold coffee and hot tea. Tell myself things will slow down soon, and then secretly pray they will not. I have an idea that I will go to Vietnam in the winter and write. I have an idea my book will sell. I have an idea a year from now I will be very proud of the person I am being right now.
I think something happens when we aim to satisfy a later version of ourselves instead of the one we are caught up in right now. Somehow it makes the daily work easier if I am looking down the road. My hours are made up small things and I do not think about you so much anymore.
I try to listen to the same advice I have given so many other writers. Try to remember the things others have taught me. Stay in the room. Lean into the strange. Only write forward. Write in the mornings. Don’t talk about it too much. Go for walks.
I am sure when I remember this summer I will be surprised by how much I could do, how blue the ocean was, and what it means to love good.
image via @leahpbradley