It’s been several years since I last caught a bird’s eye view from the library at the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport, Oregon. Eye level with seagulls floating in the wind and seeking momentary respite on the balcony rail, the building stands boldly at the end of 3rd Street on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the expanse of Nye Beach. The sand stretches north to the Yaquina lighthouse and south to an endless barrage of waves. Waves I once likened to ten thousand stallions, marching to the shore, growing smaller and more decrepit until they are no more.
That last part was not attached to my earlier metaphor. I just now thought of the addendum, nearly 20 years after I created the image. Such a reflection on my mortality wouldn’t have occurred to me in my mid-20s. Now, in my early 40s, as I can feel my body slowing down and I fight like hell to rebel against becoming a shrinking wave, I can’t help but entertain the slow journey backward in the direction of vulnerability. I know, I know, I’m speaking like I’m on the precipice of my life, and trust me, I know I’ve barely lived. Or perhaps I just don’t give myself enough credit.
What am I doing here? What am I looking for? It’s not really a matter of what the next several sentences will be. It’s more a matter of which ones should I write, and in what order.
Primarily, I came looking for words. I published my first book three years ago, and I feel like I’ve been living wordless ever since. I hadn’t planned on being a one and done. I’m not currently resigned to that fate either. But it has been a journey, a fight, a disorientation, a workout — pretty much any kind of struggle short of a failure. Like Horton, I’ve been sitting on an egg of an idea, telling myself I’m faithful, one hundred percent, all the while adding words to my story like a baker preparing cake batter one grain of flour at a time. It’s been nearly 24 hours since I’ve arrived, and I’ve collected about 3000 words. Sylvia Beach works her magic yet again.
It’s not so much that I’ve had writer’s block. It feels more that I’ve forgotten how to produce. Spending four years in the revision phase for Among the Sacred Silenced — or is it Among the Silenced Sacred — I think I grew too settled in that stage of the writing process, and I forgot what it’s like to produce a shit story in a short amount of time. I preach to my students all the time that writing is about 25% drafting, 15% planning and research, and 60% revision (I can’t tell you how many times I’ve changed those numbers. My problem has been that I’ve been trying to revise as I write, not realizing the shelf life of my own story. Like rotting vegetables in my refrigerator, my story sits, awaiting the author’s return. Each time I pop in for a visit, it’s once vibrant fibers wilt and mold and stink. But I refuse to throw it out. This is a story I want to tell, one I genuinely love. It’s not old vegetables. And so, we’ll see what happens, now that I’ve elected to bench the editor and play the writer.
So yes, I’m finding words. But what else has brought me back to the Sylvia Beach Hotel?
I must admit, it feels strange coming back here at a different stage of my life. It’s like visiting an old friend who has grown and matured along with me, but separate. When I first came here, the floors were creakier, the rooms smelled of cat, and the upstairs library both striking and rickety. The wind would howl through its old thin windows and the balcony looked like an appendage that could fall off at any moment. Since then, improvements have been made. The windows have been updated — double paned. And they’re clean. I do distinctly remember staring out the glass through a filmy residue, straining to see the beauty of the rolling Pacific. These new windows are like oculus reparo. That’s another thing. My beloved Edgar Allan Poe room, my all time favorite at SBH, has been replaced in favor of J.K. Rowling, and this is the first time I’ve stayed in the new digs. I am impressed, though I still carry a slight lament, missing the metal pendulum that hung above the Poe bed. Though nothing in the Poe room is remotely as creepy as the painting of Moaning Myrtle behind the toilet. Use your imagination. Better yet, don’t.
Like the hotel, I too have changed since we last met. I feel like in this place, I can spend time to look inward, an action that used to be habit for me, but in recent years, has become ignored in favor of relaxing and shutting down all thought processes. I had dreams, I pursued them, I got some, and now I’m wondering, what more is there to want? What more is there to discover? And don’t get me wrong — I’m not saying that there is nothing else worthwhile. I’m not that nihilistic. I guess I came here searching for an answer. I’m still not looking for a family, still not looking for a wife, though I do have companionship, which is about all I can handle with my appetite for independence. I don’t believe this place has that answer for me, but perhaps it could facilitate my finding of it.
Speaking of independence, I came here looking to be alone and to be fully myself with buffers of rest. My aloneness has always been something I’ve both relished and questioned throughout my life. But isn’t that true of all examined lives? We do what makes us happy, and every once in a while, we ask ourselves, “Is this still cool?”
So words, introspection, and some alone time. But mostly, I think I’m here for the words. That ties everything together. I want this next book to be a career changer for me. I want to make $90K a year as an author and limit my teaching to a part time gig. A very part time gig. If I can do that, I’d be a pretty happy guy. Then maybe I’ll find myself, well, back here. Back with the seagulls in a quiet penthouse, listening to the constant breath of the ocean, and wondering on which tier of waves my life resides.