Tra La La

You heard me! One Diet Coke. Now, lady! Now!

And now there is no time to be afraid of anything as tomorrow my son and I once again head N.O.R.T.H. Our beach awaits. As do sisters and cousins and beachside cafes and grilled cheese sandwiches made by someone other than me, a haircut and many things strictly botanical with pgymy mammoth bones thrown in. Tucked into the minivan, ready to roll first thing in the morning (along with way too much luggage), are my copy of The Tiger’s Wife, a tides chart and the first five chapters of Trouble, all nicely printed out with revisions in place, coming with us. I’m eager to sit on the beach and read, the surf and view detangling writing angst, which is such a waste of time. The angst, I mean. Not sitting on the beach, working, while he plays with his cousins and the rest of the world dreams. Tra la la…

If there’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s working on the beach. Productivity Ions zap me between sand castle making and exploring tide pools. My future desk is on a beach. It is made of sandstone and has no legs.

If I’m lucky, there will be dolphins.

About PB Rippey

Writer, wife, mother, grateful. Fiction, memoir, poetry, kidlit (MG), member SCBWI.
This entry was posted in books, Fiction, Me and Us, middle grade, ocean related, Santa Barbara, To Explain, Writer's Angst, Writing, Writing Progress and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Words do not escape you

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