Sunday, July 25, 2010

I'm Doing it

Photo credit: doberman from

When I was eleven years old something wonderfully terrible happened. My mother's best friend's great aunt died. I never knew her. My mom visited her ocean cottage every summer. She told me stories of that place, that summer place where the waves met rocks and fireflies were fairies.

But when I was eleven I got to go too... because there was work to be done. The cottage was lovely but old and moldy. The entire place smelled like musty books... because the entire place was FULL of musty books. Over the next eight summers I read most of those books while my mom and her best friend (and a moaning, sneezing, me) prettied up the place.

I've written about those summers. Transformative, magic filled times. I've written about the people I met and the places those people took me in my mind.

As a matter of fact the place itself has become the town from which all my charachters in each of my novels come from. All my dreams are born there. And still: It's been over a decade since I've been able to go back. Why? Well now... isn't that a good question.

In one piece, "Crazy Making" I put it this way (Though I was speaking more about a person from that time than the place itself it still holds the most truth)

"I can't go because I can not (at this point in my life) immerse myself in the other option. The option I chose to veer away from when I decided on normalcy instead of bohemianism.

I can't go because I am afraid of what could have been, and of what could possibly become, if the quiet peacefulness and soft attention from a beloved and accepting person should penetrate the armor I wear so fiercely."

But guess what? I'm going. I'm goingimgoingimgoing. I'm taking the smaller two of my girls (The older one is already there with my mother) I'm leaving my darling, normal, staid, husband behind and I'm going.

I hope my heart comes back when my body does.



  1. *reaches out and squeezes hand*

  2. My grandmother had a place like that in rural New Brunswick. I have vague memories of a tree swing and an old white horse that lived down the hill at a farm next to us.

    The kitchen sink held an old cast iron pump. The floor wasn't vinyl, but 'oilcloth' - another name for linoleum.

    I think a cousin now owns the land. I'd like to know if that shack still stands.

  3. Sounds like a beautiful place. Ideal for writing. :) Enjoy!

  4. @riv: *feels squeeze*
    @Chumplet: there's a story there!
    @Janet: and that's what I'll be doing!

  5. All the ingredients that dreams are made of. Come back and tell us your story. Tell us about your adventure, let your heart do the talking. (Hugs)Indigo

  6. Happy vacation, good lady. Enjoy!

    And for the record, the smell of musty old books makes me very, very happy. I don't even sneeze much. :)

  7. Sometimes I have found, hearts can live in two places. Perhaps your will find a way to embrace both? Have a wonderful time.

  8. Human hearts are big enough to encompass universe. And human minds make it possible to keep universe spillage to a minimum. ; j

    I bid you safe travels through time, space, dreams, and emotions.

  9. Aww sounds like my family's hut *wistfulsigh* would love to be there right now

  10. Yes! I think you should go! The bohemian-ism of your spirit has not left you and never will. Go. Enjoy.

  11. Nothing like a step back in time to nourish the creative spirit.

  12. I'm so glad you get to go. It sound so magical. =) Good luck.

  13. Sounds like a place to fly and be free. Enjoy!