Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Shell Point
WHAT'S IN VIEW
I’m
sitting at a table I use as a desk, looking out three adjoining windows.
Foremost in view is the handrail of the patio, made of treated wood lumber.
(When are we going to get transparent plastic balusters?) Past the wood railing
is a big tree, a water oak, I believe. The leaves are small and green, even in
January. I’m on the second floor of a garage apartment, so I’m looking into the
upper part of the tree. Its roots grow into the banks of the marsh.
Beyond
the tree is what looks like a field of ripe grain, except there’s a stream of
mud running through it. A couple of hours ago, water enough to make a river
coursed in a trail through what is not grain but spartina grass.
A
pine thicket grows on a distant shore. There’s a short dock into the marsh,
though I can’t imagine what you’d do on the dock. Boats never come through here
though a shallow bottom one could maneuver at flood tide.
If
I walk to the bedroom and look out that window, I’ll see the sun going down.
Every day it glows like a fiery ember as it sinks into the horizon beyond the
Broad River bridge. One evening the color was so pervasive it infused the
atmosphere with a peach glow. When the sun’s last rays disappear, you can see
the lights of the cars crossing the bridge.
There
have been nights when I’ve opened the curtains to a moon so bright I could
almost read without turning on a light. I’m always amazed at the full moon’s
saintly glow, throwing ghastly shadows. There’s something other-worldly about
its light.
Why
am I here? I’m NOT here to admire the view. I’m here to write, but there are
times when I just can’t take Tilmon and Westfall Plantation any longer. My
story seems to be out of my control. It’s falling apart. And I haven’t even
finished a first draft of the manuscript. I thought I was approaching the
finish line, but the line keeps moving … and at the moment, it’s stuck in mud
no less thick than that in the marsh. I can only hope my editor will save me.
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