A Writer's Vacation

I usually dont go on vacation. A vacation takes me out of my house, away from my keyboard, far from my wireless network. Ive grown to love the little conveniences of my home, the height of my desktop computer, the luxury of using my laptop even while cooking a big meal, the unexpected warmth of my dogs breath against my leg. Before even packing, I miss my bed, my bathroom, my EVOO.

A vacation poses a leap of faith into the unknown. Aside from my normal apprehensions about going way up in the air on some physics principles and prayers, I wonder about the accommodations which never seem to match the brochure. Furthermore, there are noises I am used to sleeping through, locks I feel secure behind, and small amounts of identifiable dirt I can live with peacefully. And then there is the matter of being idle. Vacationing people are not only expected to leave home and family, theyre expected to leave their work. Needless to say, I had more difficulty with the latter, but I did agree to give it the old college try.

Yellow-belly that I am, I did not brave the trip alone. In addition to members of my immediate family, packets of Immodium, and a big bottle of hair conditioner, I packed a few other writers for company. I packed a modest size notebook. I packed enough pens and pencils to rewrite War and Peace, all of which I carried around in my oversized purse, awkwardly lifting and dropping passports and tickets, removing and replacing the books innumerable times for Tic Tacs and gum, knowing it was worth any inconvenience to be able to read on demand.

At our destination, my family predictably abandoned me to pursue fun, and I set up shop. I angled a lounge chair out of the sun on a balcony facing the ocean, and pulled out the first of my books. I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator in our suite, and sat out there a good thirty seconds enjoying the view, the breeze, the quiet, noting my husbands position on a sailboat in case he asked the way the kids used to ask if I had seen them doing tricks in the water. now my vacation was beginning. I was finally going to be able to enjoy someone elses work, without interruption.

The first ten pages were easy enough. And once I put the towel over my legs to keep from getting one of those sunburns I preached about to my kids, the second ten were bearable. During the next five or so, I finished the last of my peanut M&Ms from the airport, moving directly into my pack of Eclipse. And then I did my best to balance my sunglasses over my reading glasses, which worked, until there was no getting out of the sun on that chair.

As luck would have it, there was also a table and chair set on the balcony, which I could easily position in the shade, so I picked up my water bottle, my towels, my purse, my book, and changed locations. So I was upright. Being upright didnt preclude relaxation. I methodically noted the position of my daughter and husband now in a yellow kayak, acknowledged the mountains, the palm trees, my son who came to get his bathing suit, the heat of the sun, the strength of the breeze against the pages of my paperback, and then this strange black bird which started yelping insistently. I stood up as if to ask why it was disturbing my newly found peace. It seemed to be cursing me out, again and again, until I knew how Dorothy felt to be so very far from Kansas.

Offended, I clutched the railing of the balcony, mourning my lack of peace, wondering how early they started serving tropical drinks at the bar. The bird was relentless. What, I asked myself, could it possibly want from me? I was a stranger, invisible to the other, nicer birds who didnt feel the need to keep calling out to me. I stared up at the sky until my eyes watered, watching this bird for any Hitchcock leanings. He was definitely a screamer. Mom? That would be my luck. While the other tourists were bobbing to reggae, I was under attack by the winged ghost of my mother.

Suddenly I seemed to wake up and understand where I was. I wasnt on vacation. I had traveled into a wonderful new setting! I immediately reached for my notebook and cursed the very resolve that brought me here without my computer, because I was certain I would never be able to write as quickly as necessary in order to capture every sight, smell, and sound for some future story. Six pages later, the ocean still rolled about laughing at me. Bring it on, I smirked. I had towels. I had water. I had a whole new world to imagine.

L. A. Rentschler, author of the newly released novel Mother (amazon.com). Author of Jitters which was produced as a Lifetime Original Movie. Playwright, best known for Deathbed. IWWG. Dramatist Guild of America. http://www.larentschler.com

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