Wanting to write something is somewhat like nausea. You feel slightly disoriented till it’s out. And since there is no such urge, I don’t write often enough.
But life has actually been rather vibrant in some ways. A visit to the lovely sandy beaches in the South West early this month was the perfect way to start summer.
When I first got to England, the pebbly beaches in the South East felt a lot closer (and cheaper to get to) and that’s where I headed. But pebbles don’t make a beach. Not in my book. And that’s why walking in sand with little wavelets jumping between your toes is such pleasure. If a visit to a beach doesn’t involve an element of sinking into the sand, it’s incomplete.
But it’s no reason not to enjoy a pebbly beach should you be on one. Am still learning that. (Yes, this is all very figurative.)
I’ll go look for the writerly nausea now. About time.