We booked a house for a much-needed weeklong vacation, and we’ll be heading there soon. A house on the coast, with a private beach, a lovely-looking deck, and more bedrooms than we need. We’ll be with friends, with a 4:2 adult to child ratio, which in my opinion is perfect. And so… I could have some time to write! And yet. I wonder if I should be thinking this way. Part of me has visions of sitting outdoors, looking out at the ocean, scrunching my bare toes in the grass, sipping a Caipirinha, jotting down notes or outlining chapters while the kids nap or play on the beach, and it looks perfect to me. We’ve had a trying last few weeks, and mental escape to a place in which I can create the realities is appealing. (Albeit within the context of 19th century India.) But part of me (and a large part of my dear husband J) feels that if I consider writing my work, or one of my works, and if the point of this trip is vacation, then I should vacate. As in, not write. Not bring my computer. Not attempt to accomplish anything. Which, as a good friend with similar tendencies to mine points out, is an accomplishment in itself, and therefore should be satisfying.
Is it silly even to be worrying about this? My friend’s husband brings his computer with him when he’s on vacation. A few months ago, when we were sharing a vacation house for a few days, I asked him what he was doing. “Coding,” came the answer. “You’re doing work?” I asked. “Well, not really. I’m coding something the way I think it should be done. But it’s a way they wouldn’t let me do it at work.” So. Take that, J. I’m not completely insane. Or at least, there are others worse than me. He was doing something for work that would never actually be used, simply for the integrity of it. Maybe I’ll bring my writing after all.