Sunday. Early. Rain falls. I don the pea coat and walk to the beach, past the holiday decorations and hummingbirds feeding from the feeders the hummingbird nuts keep filled year round. I love these hummingbird nuts.
As I walk down the road, I think about another Christmas tale I want to write, even though the book of Christmas Tales is already out. It’s about a Vietnam veteran who runs a Christmas tree lot in Coos Bay and meets another veteran, a younger man very down on his luck, and the older vet enlists his help to run the tree lot. I find these days that I am writing almost everything in my head as a I walk.
Speaking of books, I sold a copy of the rain book. That means I have one left. One!
I’ve thought about writing more about the Pandemic but just can’t seem to muster the energy for it. Two more of my friends contracted the virus. They survived but felt waylaid by it.
I hit the beach and the piles of dead kelp continue to mount. I have never seen such a die off, if that’s what it is, of this much kelp. Usually it piles up after a big storm, but for the past two months the kelp just keep coming and coming ashore on calm seas.
It has been several days since I visited my complex of 17 forts. In the distance, as I approach, I can see most of them have been obliterated by natural causes.
Only one remains intact. Why this fort survived when others around it were blown out, is a Zen koan.
I’ll start over later this week. There is some great new wood washed ashore.
I am still somewhat at a loss at what writing project to take up in 2021. I have two books already in the can. I have some ideas but nothing seems pressing, more like I am considering and letting the interest build.