I Went to the Seaside to Take a Rest, and Nary a Word Did I Write

Relaxation can cultivate creativity. Yet giving in to the impulse to work in these conditions undermines the point of taking a break. (In other words, here's a rambling personal piece.)

My wild monkeys taking a morning stroll on the shore

I am pleased by the cadence of the title I chose, but worry not: this whole piece will not be an exercise in mediocre verse. I was compelled to write some poetry for an Intro to Creative Writing class last year and the cringe that I cringed while doing so will last me for the next decade, thank you very much. Let other pens dwell on meter and enjambment and rhyme; I quit such dizzying subjects as soon as I can.

In the bleak midsummer, I journeyed with my family to the coast. (Yes. Midsummer is bleak. If that phrase means little to you, then you clearly do not live in a part of the world subject to Oppressive Humidity.) My parents rented a cottage in Ocean City, New Jersey, and the many members of my family of origin—plus their spouses, significant others, and small children—descended upon it in twos and threes and fours throughout the course of a week. There was tumbling surf and boogie boarding and sunrise walks and sautéed shrimp, toddlers on boardwalk rides and sand in the sheets, and a fine film of sunscreen over it all. It was a glorious and magical time, refreshing and full of love and saltwater taffy, and I spent several happy hours luxuriating in the sound of wind and water and shrieking gulls and people somehow still playing boom boxes in the year of our Lord twenty twenty-four.

As is my custom when packing for a trip, I brought a plethora of books, and only succeeded in reading a significant portion of two of them. (If you are curious, those books were Gangsters at the Grand Atlantic by Sarah Masters Buckey—nostalgia for my preteen years of devouring American Girl History Mysteries—and The Other Bennet Sister by Janice Hadlow.) That, however, is two books more than I might have read at home in the same time. The minutes I spent relaxing in a canvas chair on the shore, or stretched out along a rustic settee on the cottage porch, with a book in hand and lemonade in a red solo cup balanced out of the way of preying children, added up to hours of bliss. Reading without interruption of ordinary cares is a beautiful gift.

(I should take a moment to note that I appreciate the wisdom of the unknown philosopher who said that a vacation with young children is just parenting in a new location. While this is often true, taking a vacation with young children AND GRANDPARENTS is an opportunity for an actual reprieve. If my parents—and siblings!—had not graciously helped out with our boys as much as they did, my personal reading time would likely have extended only as far as the directions on the package of swim diapers.)

The more I read, the more I want to write. Absorbing someone else’s well-chosen words inspires me to channel my three-year-old’s energy and Do It Myself. I planned ahead for reading at the beach. I brought a whole book bag full of books. But I deliberately did not bring my laptop, and I did not use my almost-a-week of vacation to write anything at all.

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These days time is my greatest barrier to writing. Well, that and the sleep deprivation. Which, I suppose, is bound up with time in a way, because if I had more time, I’d sleep later in the mornings. (As it is, I’ve gotten really good at taking incredibly fast showers right before my husband has to leave for work so that I can claim those five extra minutes in bed.) Taking care of two energetic boys, trying to keep my house in order, working part-time, going to school part-time, attempting to be active in my church and with my family, and all the many cumulative hours that I spend putting the toilet paper back on the roll after my one-year-old unspools it all combine to fill up nearly every hour of my day. I have a lot of ideas for writing. I even have a couple of novels waiting to be outlined and committed to a Word document. But finding uninterrupted stretches of time in which to type, and think, and backspace, and type again? Scarcer than actual naps from my preschooler.

In a typical week, I make do with pockets. Ten minutes here, fifteen there. This very post has been cobbled together in moments before and after classes, during my kids’ “rest” times, in bed at the end of a long day. On vacation, I might have reveled in solid hours of writing time, if I’d excused myself from the water and sand, left my kids in other capable hands, and sneaked (snuck?) back to the house to peck at my keyboard.

But I didn’t, and I’m very happy that I didn’t. I wrote nothing except a few texts to friends and a quick email or two. I did not save any drafts. I did not journal. I did not even tweet until the trip was at its end.

In past years I might have seen this as a waste. I might have chastened myself for being unproductive. I might have compared myself to others I know who are never far from their (physical or digital) writing desk. I might have wondered if I’d ever make it as a writer if I’m not willing to “write every day” according to the prevailing advice. I might have felt guilty for failing to redeem the time as Christians are called to do in Ephesians 5:15.

I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I rested. And I’m better for it.

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I’ve had a post marinating in my notes app since the beginning of The Summer of Jane Austen. It was inspired by a section of Rachel Cohen’s Austen Years, and it is titled, “What Jane Austen Taught Me About Rejecting Hustle Culture.” It’s a quippy headline that I am quite fond of, but I will probably never get around to actually writing it during TSofJA (as the summer is nearly over, and—see above—my writing time is short) so I shall incorporate its main point into this little piece and hope those of you who did not come here to read about Austen will forgive me. (It’s hard for me to not talk about her. Much like Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I suppose. …Oh dear.)

For about four years, during the time that her family lived in Bath and then (following the death of Austen’s father) during their meandering through the countryside staying with various kind relatives, the yet-unpublished Jane Austen wrote very little. With fewer demands on her time than a settled stability might have included, she did not choose to “be productive.” Scholars are not sure why. Perhaps it was grief for her father, who always encouraged her writing; perhaps it was the lack of inspiration she found in Bath, a city she detested; perhaps she did write, but whatever she worked on has been lost to history in the great bonfire of The Beautifull Cassandra.¹

In any case, one of the greatest English novelists—arguably a woman who indelibly shaped literature as we know it today, without whom the world of books would be very different—spent years of her vocation producing nothing of note. And her legacy did not suffer for it.

(Well, maybe it did. I suppose we have no way of knowing whether she could have written six more incredible novels during those four years if she had chosen to do so. But my point is that she still turned out six bangers and two unfinished manuscripts even after taking a hiatus that amounted to almost twenty percent of her career.)

We can’t know exactly how Austen spent those years apart from the day-to-day duties of her life as a devoted daughter to an ailing mother, and a friend and correspondent to her sister and many acquaintances. Perhaps she sketched characters and conflicts in her mind while refraining from putting pen to paper; perhaps she put all thoughts of Elizabeth Bennet and Elinor Dashwood far away and simply “stood up to live.”

In 2024, in America, as a mother and a wife and a freelancer and a friend and an employee and a student, I feel the tug of hustle culture as surely as the tides feel the pull of the moon. (See how I tied that metaphor back to the beach theme? Very mindful.) In order to get anything done, it seems, I must schedule every day, track my time wisely, multitask and moisturize and cherish the moment and carpe the diem. I am twenty-nine-and-a-half, watching the clock tick toward thirty and more acutely aware every day that I am a writer who still has no degree and nothing traditionally published. I have two small children who pull on my legs and my heartstrings whenever they are with me (which is most of the time). I have an ever-growing stack of books on my bedside table and shelf, a Libby holds list a mile long for combining audiobooks and chores, a drafts folder bursting with part-formed ideas and unrealized wisps of plot. I am hard-pressed on every side by tips and tricks for maximizing my time, hacks and skips and cheat codes and courses I must buy to learn how to squeeze productivity from the same twenty-four hours as Beyoncé.

But maybe I don’t want that.

As a Christian, I often think of the injunction in Ephesians 5:15-16 to use our time wisely. The King James Version of the Bible which I grew up reading phrases it as “walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, redeeming the time.” REDEEM THE TIME! my brain likes to shout. STOP SCROLLING. LISTEN TO A PODCAST, NOT MUSIC. DO YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES WITH NOTHING TO DO? DOWNLOAD DUOLINGO AND GET CRACKING ON FLUENCY IN CROATIAN, THOU SLUGGARD.

But as any good scholar of the Bible knows, Scripture isn’t meant to be cherry-picked out of context. Certainly, we should use time wisely. But using time wisely doesn’t have to mean stripping every moment of every possible second of potential. Read in the vast context of wise counsel for believers in Christ, Paul’s instructions to the church at Ephesus remind us to use our time circumspectly in a life marked by rhythms of work and rest. The concept of sabbath worship and renewal is one that recurs throughout both the Old and New Testaments, reminding us that while God is all-powerful, we are finite and susceptible to burnout. Sometimes, using our time wisely— as whole people who have been holistically redeemed— means eating a snack and taking a nap.²

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I am finishing this essay in a bustling coffee shop, drinking a pumpkin spice latte and typing away while my sister watches my boys. (Next week, I will watch her son while she takes some writing time of her own. We try to do this for each other once a month.) It has been exactly a month since I left for the beach. This piece has been simmering ever since then, written in fits and snatches, bits and spurts of time in which I could open my laptop without chubby little fingers gleefully reaching out to smash the keys.

I can’t pretend to have figured out the rhythm of rest. I am still struggling to find a balance in my life of good, fulfilling work and contemplative, renewing relaxation amid all the dishes and laundry and homework that have to be done.

But the five days I spent at the ocean refreshed me more than I expected. The pockets of writing time I find these days, with the help of my family, give me an outlet for creativity that could not flow without some times of contemplation (after all, I cannot write if I’m not reading). I’m grateful. I’m still figuring it out.

And the next time I go to the beach, I don’t think I’ll even bring a notebook. I’ll take some naps and absorb some good literature and people-watch. And I’ll chase my children on the sand, because that at least is a moment that I’m happy to seize.

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I’m not really sure if this post fits neatly into my Summer of Jane Austen so I’m not putting it in that section, but if you’re interested in reading more of my Austen paraphernalia from this season, you may go here.

1. This is a reference to a satirical short story Austen wrote in her juvenile years, and the spelling is as she had it. I know how to spell “beautiful.” I am making a joke about the actual burning of Austen’s letters and, perhaps, manuscripts after her death by her loyal and intensely private sister Cassandra. Thank you.

2. In 1 Kings 19, the prophet Elijah flees from the wicked king Ahab and is so distraught that he prays to God to die. “Take my life, Lord,” he says. “I have had enough.” Instead of smiting him as requested, God lets him sleep and sends an angel to give him a cake of bread. Elijah is then strengthened to continue fleeing through the wilderness. Having something to eat and getting some rest is, quite literally, a Scripture-approved method for quelling depressive thoughts. FOOD FOR THOUGHT.