If you write fiction, finding your voice can be an ongoing search. My talented writing friend, Brent Lewis, has a unique voice that comes from growing up and hanging out with Eastern Shore folk. He eloquently writes about the Eastern Shore on his blog EasternShoreBrent.com and graciously gave me permission to repost Summer Marsh. It seemed appropriate for these hot summer days and the Fourth of July. Thank you, Brent.
Muggy drops of humidity hang suspended midair and almost visible.
The pungency of the marsh is pervasive, strong. It sticks to the skin. Rich with the cycles of life and death, the marsh is a sensory reminder of the changes wrought by time’s tides.
A blue heron flies low and with grace across a dish-calm creek.
Something else drifts by on the slow, saturated breeze. Something wistful. Something that smells like bulkhead creosote, tastes like warm beer from 10 oz. cans, and looks like cutoff denim shorts and bright cotton tank tops that provide free advertising to bars, beverages, and billionaire rock bands.
Feels like a dock splinter, like nostalgia.
Sounds like a summer squall. Electricity cracks the sky. The downriver horizon darkens with much more threat than warning. Regret storms in through unbattened hatches. A few minutes of intense natural fury and the tempest blows north, up the Chesapeake Bay.
Local tomatoes: heirloom red and sweetheart firm. Pale yellow sweet corn, cooked in the husk, swathed in butter. Blue crabs caught on trotlines, steamed and spiced to perfection, giving the best of themselves only to those who know their secrets.
Soft crabs fried. Served on white bread or Saltines as God intended.
Carnivals, county fairs, and the ghost-march of long extinguished firemen’s parades.
Lightning bugs announce the dusk.
Grand explosions of red, and white, and blue, and gold, and silver thunder in the night sky while the marsh lies silent below the blasts of rockets, solid looking in the dark distance and surrounded by shallow, murky waterways and paved-over wetlands.
From the intended solemnity of Memorial Day, through the patriotic celebration of the Fourth of July, to Labor Day, when we honor those who work to make this country work, there’s nothing like summer to remind an Eastern Shoreman how the marsh permeates his soul.
In our last Working Writers Forum one of the members talked about getting into the zone with his writing. He said when he was in that place he seamlessly moved forward. Wikipedia gives this definition: zone is the mental state of operation in which a person performing an activity is fully immersed in a feeling of energized focus, full involvement, and enjoyment in the process of the activity.
I’m working on the third book in my Caribbean romantic suspense series, but getting in the zone has been difficult. In part because it has been ten years since I wrote the last of book. It’s set in the Caribbean on the island of St. Lucia. We had a home there for many years and I was on the island frequently. It was easy for me to imagine the settings, the smells, the sounds. We sold that house about the time the second book in the series was published. It’s harder to get into the Caribbean zone now.
My other problem is that my zone doesn’t happen all in one stretch. It comes and goes. Something like what happens to our Direct TV when we have a heavy rainstorm. This morning at my yoga class we settled into savasana, the deep relaxation at the end of the class. Suddenly I was in St. Lucia, in the Castries market place on a busy Saturday morning. This was not relaxing! I walked through the outside venders, past women under colorful umbrellas, piles of produce arranged around them. Past the fish guy, his cart full of this morning’s catch. Inside the market building, I headed for a booth in a dark corner where an old woman was selling herbs and bush remedies. I seemed to know where I was going. Clearly this was a scene I’m supposed to put in the book. Bush medicine is part of the story. But, accessing the zone during savasana? Hello, Brain. You are not cooperating.
Why can’t I be more in the zone when I’m at my computer? Why do those moments seem to happen in the middle of a steamy shower, at 3 in the morning when I’m snugged into a warm bed, or on a long walk when I’m a mile from the house with no paper or pen in my pocket? It’s probably left and right brain issues. I’m wondering how I can make my computer space more Caribbean. Maybe that would help get my zone on a more reliable schedule.