Chapter 3 #3
The makeshift bedroom was separated from the rest of the cabin with a curtain and held a full-sized bed and a few rudimentary shelves for storage. A modest kitchen and table with a wood stove tucked in the corner filled the rest of the square footage. I flopped on the bed and took it all in.
The cabins weren’t designed to spend any lengthy amount of time in, the screened in porch was the main feature here.
The view was what you came for, and the rustic cabin would fade away into the background the longer you stared at the picturesque lake.
Even laying down on the bed I could look straight out the front door at the water.
A breeze danced over me as I laid on the mattress, taking it all in.
The curtains blew about like happy little ghosts.
Unpacking could wait until tonight, I wanted to waste no time enjoying the half day of solitude.
I jogged down to shore to go for a paddle and grabbed the first lifejacket and kayak I saw, not checking to see if they were the right size.
With each stroke of the paddle fresh air pumped into my lungs and icy droplets of lake water splashed onto my skin. When my arms grew tired I turned the boat around and looked at the shoreline behind me.
From halfway down the lake the camp was diorama-sized.
The cabins looked like they were made of popsicle sticks, and my car was a Hot Wheels toy.
Out here all that existed was me, the fiberglass kayak, and the surrounding water.
This bubble would be all I’d need to focus on this week, anything outside of it didn’t matter.
I carefully slid my phone out of my pocket and snapped a picture of the view.
This was the moment that kicked off the rest of my life.
I’d write a good chunk of this book, I’d get my groove back, and I’d go back to Boston a new woman.
The plan was so clear, so easy, and I’d refuse to let anything derail it.
After dinner with Sue and Randy—an event where I was peppered with questions about what was new in myself while awkwardly dancing around the elephant in the room named Nick—I made my first attempt to write.
The gas lamps were lit, a mug of coffee was cooling beside me. I put on my comfiest sweats and flexed my fingers, willing them to plot out something brilliant.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. Nothing. My brain had short-circuited. My cursor flashed at me. Mocking me.
I groaned, burying my head in my hands. “Ice on the Turret” had been so easy to write, the words flowed out of me without even trying.
I’d be driving or walking somewhere and come up with a complete paragraph out of the blue and have to drop everything to write it down in my notes app.
It felt like I was writing against my own will.
Why was it so much harder now? I had the framework, all I needed to do was tear down the siding and rebuild it into something slightly different that didn’t resemble anything related to Sword of Thorndown.
I listlessly plunked at my keyboard, typing out a sentence, deleting it, typing another one, then deleting that. I typed out “fuck everything this fucking sucks.”
Then I deleted that too and closed my laptop.
It was only day one, and I could chalk up this particular kind of writer’s block to the hours I’d spent driving and the giddy excitement of being at camp. Tomorrow I would have more ideas. Tomorrow me would be a creative genius.
I resigned myself to a night devoid of writing and decided to seek inspiration elsewhere.
The sun had long set, I missed it in my failed attempt at brainstorming.
Under the cover of complete darkness, I snuck out of the cabin to lay on the dock and stare up at the stars.
It was a nightly tradition when I was up here, only torrential downpours could keep me away.
It started sometime after losing my fear of the dark, and I’d spend hours alone watching satellites and shooting stars whiz past. I swore I saw a UFO once, but no one believed me.
The dock was my own personal planetarium, the only sound was the wind rustling tree branches, the small waves lapping against the wood, and the occasional loon call or coyote howl.
In a way, the solitude was almost suffocating.
I was nothing more than a microscopic dot in the center of dozens of miles of wilderness and an infinite galaxy.
In a sense it was reassuring, a reminder that nothing actually mattered, my existence was but a fleck of dust in this universe. A grain of sand on an endless beach.
The Milky Way extended over the lake in an arc, one end looking like it connected directly to the mountain on my right.
Light pollution and the slow destruction of our planet thanks to capitalism took away these kinds of night skies from most people.
It felt like a privilege to see the stars at all.
The stars blurred across my vision as sleep settled onto my lids. I’d lost track counting them and dotting the constellations, instead letting my breathing rhythmically settle.
Then I remembered I should probably avoid letting myself become bear food and ran back into the safety of my cabin.