Popham Beach in Winter

My manuscript revisions were feeling as fresh as old snow. The mercury had crept into the double digits; the sun was shining, and the wind was still. The sea would rinse the snow from the sand. Clear winter light paints a canvas for intrepid walkers.

My dog bounded off in pure delight. For weeks Stella has been following my ski tracks, her ball lost in deep snow.

Crazy dog, how could you swim in such frigid water?

There were still fields of snow above the high tide mark.

The Morse River carved a serpentine path, rising and falling with the tide.

Winter storms and erosion have uprooted trees.

Pine cones suffered icy battle wounds bandaged in seaweed. Drips hung suspended in the bitter air. Winter froze time.

I passed boarded-up beach houses. How different they looked in summer.

Wouldn’t it be bliss to have even this little house on the beach?

If I’m dreaming, why not this island home? It is connected to land only at low tide.

Or perhaps I could write in a lighthouse. I would never have to leave home for inspiration.

Icebergs lined the shores of the Kennebec River as it flowed down from Bath to the ocean. I thought about my next book set on those banks. Every step on frozen sand was a note on paper, but I can’t start writing a new book until I finish drafting the old one.

As the sun sank low, I was ready to head home. The waves had washed the gritty residue off the pages waiting on my desk. Another day of revision swept by. Finally, I’m writing new chapters again. The tide has turned.

Blog Watch: Trying to beat winter blues? Check out these blogs: Troutbirder in Minnesota laughs them away while Each Little World in Wisconsin escapes into The Secret Garden.