Fact: I do not live in a tent on the beach. And, also in fact, even if I could, I wouldn’t. Camping is not my general jam. But I started this blog years ago when things were different, hope was high and life worth living (extra points if you know the Broadway musical reference). It was my place, not well defined and structured, a small patch of the internet that was mine in which I could squirrel thoughts away or rant endlessly about something relatively meaningless. So much opinionated energy devoted here, so many navel-gazing efforts gone awry. Sometimes I’d hit on something funny.
Fast forward years later. I’m now in the middle of a career I didn’t want, doing a job that I question most days. The literal headiness of graduate school is long gone, replaced by the bitterness that comes from more student loans than aforementioned questionable, unsatisfying career can pay, more creative ghosts in the closet haunting me with the notion that I’m wasting my life and best ideas on people who don’t care.
In fact, like a genie in a magic lamp or Mary Poppins, My Tent on the Beach seems to appear when I need it the most. It is that soft calling of the universe to get back on the horse and just keep writing. Write something silly, write something cool. Write a detective novel. Or just ask a question. The nice thing about a tent on the beach is it can be what you make it that day but it asks for no more commitment than that. It may not stay in the same place; it may looked a little ragged or worn; it may smell or have a little furry friend living in it at any given time. But it’s mine all the same wherever and in whatever state it makes itself known to me.
I love my Tent on the Beach. I hope you will too. Welcome.