I did most of my best writing in the books I published in the ‘80s on a tropical island off the coast of Florida.
We had a small beachfront house on pilings on the island’s Bay side, facing the mainland, with an endless supply of fish and blue crabs to catch from the long dock that reached out into the Bay.
The other side of the island was where the tourists went — to the long, white sand beaches covered with shells that washed in from the Gulf. The women wore bikinis and sun hats and couples crowded into the island’s few restaurants at night.
Their smiled a lot and their faces were sunburnt.
Our side of the island was quiet, mostly empty, lined with coconut palm trees, and free of distractions, save for the porpoises, pelicans, egrets, herons, cormorants, sharks, rays, osprey and manatees that occasionally flew or swam by.
When I’d get stuck at the end of a sentence with no idea how to proceed, I’d walk out front and pace along the small beach in front of the cottage. The water lapped softly in a way that was always comforting.
If I couldn’t find my next sentence out there, at least there were shells.
The prized types that washed in on that little beach were king’s conchs with their distinctive spikes and black, brown and white coloring.
It was summertime so the island was extremely hot and extremely calm.
Occasionally, a boat would stop by, with fishermen who’d heard the fishing was good off of our dock. I’d wave to them in a friendly fashion but wished they would stay away. You couldn’t swim when they were there, it would scare the fish.
The fishermen would scurry away at the first sign of the big dark cumulus buildup in the afternoon, when summer storms blew over to us from the mainland. You knew it was time to head inside when your hair started standing straight up from heh static electricity.
Lightning and thunder were on the way.
The Bay churned up violently in those storms, with huge purple waves that came crashing to shore. The little house wasn’t anchored to its pilings and it rocked in storms. I liked writing during the rain. You couldn’t go outside anyway so it was all the easier to concentrate on work. The palm trees would bend and drop some coconuts and shed a few of their fronds. It call came crashing into the sand like errant missiles.
Later I’d grab a hatchet and crack open a nut to drink its milk and spoon out its sweet flesh.
After the thunderheads had vanished to the west, taking their mayhem with them, our whole world settled back into a sweet calm and the birds came back out. I could almost hear Jo-El Sonnier singing one of his sad country songs in the distance.
The only downside of writing in that place was that my mind would often wander. Rather than focusing on the task at hand, I’d sometimes dream of pushing the sailboat into the water and shoving off from shore, drifting far away alone, across the sea.
Into the distance, with only a fishing pole, a cold beer, a jug of drinking water, a good book, my journal and a pen, my sunglasses and a baseball cap, a nautical map and a camera. All in search of my next sentence.
NOTE: We sold the beach cottage in 1999. As a condition of its sale, I insisted that it be preserved intact and moved to higher ground. It sits today in the island’s historical village.
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LYRICS:
“Cmon Joe”
Jo-El Sonnier
It's a long hot night and the stars are shinin' kinda extra bright
Sittin' on the back porch glider, whettin' my appetite
Well, I'm a six pack high, I start missin' the light of my baby's eyes
Wasn't it beautiful, the kind of soul they said would never die
It's a-muggy in the shack and the backwoods are black
Cause the clouds hid the moon away
The light from my cigarette flickerin' in the dark
Is the only way she knows I'm here
And suddenly the sounds of a fiddle and accordion
Sweetly begin to play and I can almost hear her sweet voice say
Come on Joe, let's count to ten
Pull yourself together again
Come on Joe, you gotta get over this mood you're in
Come on Joe, you gotta be strong
You're still young and life goes on
So carry on till we're together again
Hey, I know she's right but it's hard to fight when you're hurtin' so
I tried to walk out that door but I just can't go
With the tears and the laughter in every rafter of every room
Wasn't it beautiful, wasn't it the kind of happiness in bloom
It's a-muggy in the shack and the backwoods are black
Cause the clouds hid the moon away
The light from my cigarette flckerin' in the dark
Is the only way she knows I'm here
And suddenly the sounds of a fiddle and accordian
Sweetly begin to play and I can almost hear her sweet voice say
Come on Joe, let's count to ten
Pull yourself together again
Come on Joe, you gotta get over this mood you're in
Come on Joe, you gotta be strong
You're still young and life goes on
So carry on till we're together again
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