I spent a long weekend on Orcas Island, holed up in a private and utterly comfortable cabin on the water with stunning views of the Puget Sound and Mt. Baker… when the clouds cleared long enough.
This is the third trip I’ve taken to the island. Each time, I gather all my papers before I depart with smug determination that in this area of stunning beauty, I shall write.
There’s just one problem. As the Guardian books blog points out, a life of comfort in a gorgeous corner of the world tends not to produce much writing of merit, if any writing at all. On all three trips, my intentions ebb. My word counts dribble. My desire to write is replaced with this strange thing that must be contentment.
Why write when you can sit and stare?
I did read a lot over the weekend though, that scenery lends itself to reading, lots of it. I could stare out there all day. Though lesson learned: If writing is the goal, then apparently I should book a trip to some hovel, complete with cockroaches and multiple forms of mildew in the bathroom.