Seward is in a time capsule. Little kids still deliver the paper. And they’re so irresistibly adorable. I interviewed the police chief and he said the little girl shows no mercy when she stops by the police department, newspapers in hand, eyes beseeching him to start or renew a subscription.
After the interview, I walked along the beach over a million black stones. Trailing towers of mist clung to the mountains and the sun glowed hazy through the vapor.
I picked up a little rock speckled with green with a jagged line cutting through like a mouth. I thought it looked like a dinosaur head. Or Godzilla. It reminded me of someone who would like it very much.
The tide was out and barnacles and seaweed clung to the rocks while seagulls and seabirds bobbed in the bay and ravens fought over morsels of food and called out to one another.
There were a couple of families dotting the beachline in groups of two or three, holding on to a little child’s hand as they walked along, crouching a few times to examine the brilliant purple shells that washed up on shore.
I’ve stories to write — complicated, unglamourous stories — and the panic is starting to burble a little in my throat but I will hack away, away, away at the stories and they will get done.
Monday is my favorite day of the week because the newspaper is soundly in bed. I’ve begun to detest Fridays and the weekends. How’s that for a change of pace?
Every time I swear, this is the last story I ever write, the process is too miserable, as soon as the stories are out I think, “Oh. That wasn’t too bad. I think I can do it again.”