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“AARRGGHH!”
Jessica’s beloved basset hound, Tracer, looked up from his post breakfast nap and wagged his tail, watching her expectantly. This wasn’t normally a time they went for a walk on the beach or went into the garden to play fetch, but he was always hopeful.
She rolled her desk chair across to the antique daybed where Tracer spent most of his days and ruffled his long, silky ears before giving him a kiss on the nose. “Not yet, baby.”
Determined to get at least two chapters done before taking Tracer out for a walk, she turned back to her screen. “Come on, talk to me,” she entreated her characters.
Normally, Jessica wrote all day, breaking it up into three sessions: early morning, midday, and late evening. Between sessions she checked in with her marketing/business manager, posted on social media, spent time with Tracer, and took care of the normal tasks necessary to everyday living—all except housekeeping and cooking. Jess hated to clean house and had early on in her career ear-marked money for a weekly house cleaner.
Sudie had been cleaning house for Jessica for more years than either of them cared to remember. When Sudie’s husband had passed a number of years before, she’d struggled to make ends meet while maintaining her own house. So, Jessica had created a mother-in-law suite off the back of the kitchen with a separate entrance and private patio. She’d hired Sudie full-time to cook, clean, and garden to her heart’s content. It allowed Sudie to have someone to fuss over, some things—the garden, the house, and Jessica’s eating habits—to fuss over and still have enough time for her volunteer work with the local historical society and the library.
It gave Jessica someone to stay with Tracer when she had to travel and allowed her to have someone run the domestic side of her life, for which Jessica and Tracer were both grateful. Normally, she was able to focus, stick to her outline and write a novel straight through. Having faced her own demons from her past, she could call on those memories to help erase the emotional scars and channel those deep feelings into her writing. It was something her readers connected with and often commented on.
For the most part, she’d created a happy, successful life for herself. It had taken hard work and determination, but she was flourishing and respected within the writing community. Oh sure, there were the usual petty jealousies, but for the most part, she was well-liked among readers and other authors alike. But lately…lately she’d felt as though there was something missing. It was fine to share her prosperity and wins with her inner circle, but she longed for someone with whom she could share everything—wins and losses, successes and failures. Someone who would be at her side and with whom she could just dive in and take her life up to the next step.
Something was missing, and for once, she couldn’t put her finger on what that was. With this latest novel, she seemed to be unable to focus and make it come together. She’d always seen ‘writer’s block’ as a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy, but now she wasn’t so sure.
The phone rang beside her. She picked it up, smiling as she saw the caller identification. “Hi, Fiona.”
“Hey, Jessica. I was calling to see if you’d heard anything more from McSexy and how the book was going.”
“Nothing since the email from Detective Wilder about finding the bones—” She refused to admit she thought of him as McSexy as well, mostly because she thought it was more than apropos, “—other than the emails which I forwarded on to you. I think he’s a man of few words, or else he isn’t interested in cold cases. I doubt they help your case closure rate or do much for you when your annual review rolls around.”
“You could be right about that,” agreed Fiona. “I’m just glad we got to get some closure for her friends and family. Her parents have died as have some of her friends, but it was nice to know at least he got arrested and will be tried. Hopefully, it’ll give her sisters some peace of mind.”
“I agree, and at least we’ll know we helped to find out what happened, and she can rest in peace.”
“So, how’s the writing going?” asked Fiona a bit tentatively.
Fiona was the one person who knew she was struggling.
“It’s not,” Jessica said simply. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I have a good, strong outline and I love the characters, but it’s like I can’t get them to step up and talk to me.”
“I understand. Trust me. I think there comes a time in every writer’s career that you experience—not exactly burn-out, but a kind of lethargy. And I think the more successful you’ve been, the harder it is when you slam into that wall.”
“You could be right.”
“I know I am. But more than that, I have a suggestion.”
“What, pray tell?”
“Take a working vacation. Don’t get me wrong, your house is gorgeous, and in my most successful days I would have envied your writing space, but it’s where you’ve done all your best work.”
Jessica groaned. “I hate to travel. I mean I love going new places, but packing and unpacking and finding my way around…”
“I get it. But I’m telling you, the trip to Kennebunkport and then coming to your house have really reinvigorated my ambition. Having three writers I admire tell me they think my writing is not only good but better than ever…”
“It is,” said Jessica.
“Thanks. You can’t see it, but I’m grinning ear-to-ear. I hear you about going someplace you don’t know; so how about going someplace you do?”
“Like where? You’re not making sense. I don’t think a staycation would work.”
“Not if you stay at your house, but what about that gorgeous lighthouse they turned into a bed and breakfast at the other end of the harbor?”
“You mean go stay there while I write?”
“Sure, why not? It has all the advantages of shaking up your schedule and none of the drawbacks of traveling somewhere. Just pack a bag for a few days and go. Enjoy some of those great restaurants in Badger’s Drift, and just hide away.”
