tortured writer, lovely setting
Aloha. I’m still in paradise. The amazing thing is that on a mundane drive to your naturopath, you face golden mountains and turquoise water and sugar cane fields filled with soft waves of green. The writing is somewhat constipated but coming along. Much less productive than I want to be and trying not to scrunch myself up and throw myself in the wastepaper bin for failing. I’m trying. Trying. And going on a walk to the beach each morning and for a swim in the soft ocean. It really is softer on this side of the island – the sunny, hippieless part. I’m not sure how it works, but it’s like a deep soft kiss of wetness over your entire body. And then the sun is there to warm you as soon as you get out. No need to go rushing to your towel. No need for a towel, even. It’s that balmy.
Last night I freaked myself out by reading cancer statistics. Survival rates for my disease. Bad, I know. But I am doing actual research for this book. So I freaked myself out so badly I sent myself to see a cheezy movie. Elizabethtown. Terrible. But it’s Cameron Crowe so there’s always something init to love. The music, the forever first flirty phone call montage, the road trip. I cried. A lot. But who knew Orlando Bloom was the next Keanu? Holy pretty cardboard, Bill & Ted.
Now I’m struggling with the writing, thinking that I’m actually a terrible writer that this is a stupid idea I’m unqualified to write. While alternately practicing my casual chat with Oprah and mentally writing my acknowledgements page.
I’m working on this book proposal. About the cancer. From my sweet little room in a condo complex in Wailea. Even the name is a blooming hibiscus or ocean swell. Wailea. I’m getting all soft and shiny. When I’m a zillionaire I definitely want a pad here.
Okay, ramble. Love. Aloha. Mahalo.
