First off.

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On a beach in Curacao

A few days ago we went to Hemingway’s bar. It was a little cafe on the side of a beach, next to a resort, and a decent spot of sorts. It had a little charm, too expensive eats, and drinks, but it served a purpose. Some, if not most, of the better beaches on this Dutch island charge entry for their spot of sand. But this one we finagled a free visit by buying a drink and a snack. The water was as cool and refreshing as it looked. Clear as crystal till it deepened to blue lagoon beautiful.

They say Hemingway was a traveling man. He used his journey’s to inspire his art. He turned his adventures into opportunities. He did it while traveling with a young babe and wife. One of his last, (if not his very last) works was “A Movable Feast.” I read it years ago while still planning on making the escape to foreign soil. He spoke of his daydreams, his ambitions, and his desire to be a great writer. He would toil in coffee shops, around artisans, poets, and creatures of the night. He would not write. He would dream of writing, and becoming famous, and would rub alongside those who were… But he didn’t write as much as he should, or as well as he could. He procrastinated and lived the scene. But he wasn’t the scene.

I find that inspiring, and humbling, and reassuring, and motivating. Here is the much younger man, pen in hand, and staring the stars. His daydreams and desires unfulfilled. Eventually he did write. But he had to fumble through the foolishness. He had to earn his way in…

At times, most often, I procrastinate far more than I actually write. A major part of the reason that we hit the road is to have more time to focus on the page. But yet I still waste time.

I argue with myself. “Writing is something that can’t be forced!” I mutter with an almost anger when pressed to focus on my art. “It’s been a long day…” “I have to focus on my work.” “It’s too hot.” “It’s too cold.” “I’m tired.” “I am too full of energy.” The excuses flow and if they were my work of art, then I would be very productive. And those times, that I actually do the deed… well, I post about it. I talk about how I wrote a page, or two, and that I am back in the seat. That I have the gusto and the muse and the dream.

And that is where I am at today. Part two of the Tales is moving forward. I edited even. I wrote a little bit more! Listen to me crow and take part in my great deeds…

But alas… That was two days ago, or was it three? And I am trumpeting my small piece as if I actually progressed. And I sit here. And think about the great writer that someday I will be… and I am not moving… But I think that I would like a bar named after me… Someday…

C.

From A Tale of Green Cities. (Book two in the Tales of Terrezial saga)

“A town of strangers where no one asked any questions, and no one gave anything away for free.”