Where the Atmosphere is Thick

These past few months I’ve been woefully out of touch. My blog sits unused with a post dated from early September dangling out there in the digital ether. Notes from my agent are getting stale on my desk. A sequel to The Revelation of Gabriel Adam awaits a completion of the first draft. 

Yet, I just can’t seem to get it together.

Perhaps it’s having an eight-month-old child at home to contend with, or the grind of trying to lock down a job, but motivation has been a struggle to find.

Worse, I’m writing this from a coffee shop in Seaside, Florida. In paradise, it’s difficult to find motivation to do much of anything.  Something struck me, though, as the barista handed me my cappu-latte. This place has atmosphere.

The shop isn’t a large one and the constant whir of grinding beans and tinking of glass cups on saucers makes it seem even smaller. The bar takes up most of the floorspace, selfishly hoarding elbow room for the staff and leaving only a long and narrow one-sided bench pressed up against the opposite wall with a few chairs full of customers waiting on their orders. At the far wall is a six-top where I’ve managed to spread out most of my books, notes, and computer in an effort to have osmosis jump-start my creativity.

I don’t know what kind of crowd I was expecting for this Thanksgiving week, but Seaside is slammed. Two deep at the till, the bubbly-eyed girl is having a difficult time fielding orders, credit cards, and dollar bills as they fly through the air. Some guy behind her with a face full of scruff and a head full of purposefully messed up hair is orbiting her in a kinetic angst fueled by the orders stacking up by the register. He barks out for another pickup to a customer that’s inevitably walked away.

All along the walls are black and white canvas pictures of smiling Ngäbe people picking coffee beans. One giant, close-up color image of calloused hands holding a scoop of red beans over an overflowing wicker basket hangs over my table. I wonder how many cappu-lattes that basket would make. The homage to a notoriously underpaid and exploited race seems an odd decoration choice amongst the six-dollar beverages and I’m struck by a twinge of guilt as I sip mine.

People pass by the front windows, some of them shopping; others going to or from the beach. The temperature hovers somewhere in the lower sixties - cold enough for anyone from the south to wear a jacket and warm enough for anyone from the north to wear a bikini. It’s a laughable mix of skin and polar fleece.

I'm reminded what atmosphere can do for the imagination, whether you’re reading or writing. It can be like spice. Too little may leave you in a flavorless boredom and too much can overpower.  For now, at least, I’ve found enough to inspire some momentum. If you’re keen, stop by FromtheWriteAngle.com, where we can talk a little more specifically about atmosphere and writing.

A Day Hemingway

(Source)

The shower after dawn lasts until just after six until the clouds give way to the rising sun.  Left behind from the rain is a coolness to the morning air, welcome before the heat of the day sets in.

Most mornings, even in the early hours, foot traffic is heavy by the water.  People setting up umbrellas and chairs, picking the finest spots.  Today, though, because of the rain, the beach is nearly empty. 

Glassed water stretches into the blue-gray horizon.  No waves lap the shore.  The water merely breathes, inhaling and exhaling against the wet sand. 

I’ve been reading A MOVEABLE FEAST by Earnest Hemingway.  It’s a great insight into the artistic culture of Paris in the mid-twenties.  Everyone interested in the connection between prose and place should read this book, if not only for Hemingway’s anecdote about a trip to the statues of the Louvre to ensure F. Scott Fitzgerald that his member was of sufficient size. 

Who knew the museum was good for sexual psychology?

            Somehow, reading Hemingway draws me into his world.  I think of THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA and wonder about his life in Key West.  Memories of my visit to his house strain for clarity.

            In effect, I become this sort of Hemingway fanboy.

            What can I say?  I love the classics.

            This unhealthy infatuation of the famous author’s real adventures inspires one of my own.  Granted, I’m no Santiago.  And I don’t have a boat, so really a poor man’s adventure at most.  I do, however, have one of those twenty dollar rafts that sort of look like a boat and come with paddles.  It will do.

With an old beat-up rod and several diced raw shrimp for bait, I set out into the tranquil gulf.  After about thirty minutes of paddling, I’m a good fifty or so yards past the second sandbar.  Far enough that people look like ants on the shore.  Far enough to be in trouble if my dingy of a raft springs a leak.

Within minutes I’ve got a hook over the side.  Bait fish are thick, feeding off animals hiding in the sargassum.  The water, a crystal clear emerald, is perfectly visible twenty feet down.  My first visitors are two tarpon, each as long as my makeshift fishing vessel.  I cast my line at them, not contemplating the disaster of actually hooking one.  Luckily, they are more interested in the skip jack swarming.  The tarpon take after the smaller fish, jumping and leaping from the water in their hunt.

Half an hour later, I’m approached by a green turtle.  It’s cautious at first, perhaps even worried, moving slow and deliberately.  Curious eyes study me and quickly decide I’m no threat.  I toss a few bits of shrimp in the water and as soon as I turn my head, there is a splash and the bait has disappeared.  I’m not sure if the turtle ate it or if it was one of the remora that was tagging along on its shell. 

Soon my line spins out of the spool and the rod bends toward the water.  The reel is old and half-broken, and takes me longer than it should to pull in my catch – a small jack flapping wildly at the top of the water.  I unhook the poor animal and set him free. As soon as I do, I see my third visitor. 

The dark, almost slithering body is worrisome enough, but what gives me alarm is the square shape of the block snout and the long tail.  It’s deep, but large.  Probably a ten foot shark.  The earlier presence and behavior of the turtle now suggests that it might be a tiger.

As it swims into the darker water, I decide my little raft, with its collection of bait shrimp juice spilling into the water, could also be described as a chum bucket.  I paddle my way back to shore.

After a stern scolding on the intelligence of ocean exploration in a child’s raft, my wife and I spend the evening walking the streets of Ruskin Place Art Colony at Seaside.  It is a small square that looks stolen from Paris, France. 

Little boutiques art galleries and clothing stores line up, one after another, like Red Bird Gallery or the aptly named An Apartment in Paris art gallery. 

I think of Hemingway’s time in Paris where he rubbed elbows with artists and talked about writing with authors at street side cafes, and wonder what that experience did for his writing.

            He would have liked it here, too.

Bookstore Spotlight: SUNDOG BOOKS

I'm on Vacation Hiatus, so while I'm away, enjoy this Holiday Themed REPOST!  (Lazy, I know.)  Happy 4th of July Everyone!





Although you’ve probably never seen it in person, Seaside might still look familiar to you.   The crown jewel of historic Highway 30-A, its white cottages and crescent marketplace were cast as the make-believe perfect town in Jim Carrey’s The Truman Show. 

And with good reason.  A spinach and feta croissant from Modica Market in the morning, a cocktail and an amberjack sandwich for dinner at Bud & Alley’s, with a day on the whitest beach you’ve ever seen for in between.  The setting embodies perfection.

Behind the amphitheater, just beyond the scents of freshly-grilled seafood from the street vendors, and tucked neatly in the crescent of the market, is a white, two-story cottage.  Above, there is a record store on the second floor – the old fashioned kind that gives the middle finger to all things digital - and below, perfect for finding that beach read, is Sundog Books.   

Like many independent bookstores, this one has its own personality. Something you might expect from a place with a name like Sundog.  Rustic wooden floors, antique hutches and beat up tables topheavy with books fill the room. Do-it-your-way indie spirit is everywhere.  The expected fare of the latest commercial offerings are scattered about, though just as proudly displayed are published novels, fishing guides, and cookbooks from local authors.  Somehow, with the music upstairs, the always-open front door, and the sea breeze that flows through the building, the ambiance is almost like that a surf shop, but with books instead of boards.

Outside is a porch, not unlike one you might find on any nearby cottage, except that this one is reserved for author signings – the world’s first Author Signing Porch!  (Don't quote me on that little stat.)  The chalkboard beside the front door lists all the upcoming events in pastel colors. 

Easily, Sundog Books is one of the unique and distinctive things about Seaside, and the quaint little store really adds to the experience of visiting the area.  Especially for readers.  So, know any awesome bookstores you like to hit when you’re on vacation?