I love staying in Airbnbs. They inspire me. The flickering solar light hung on a post, the purple-and-mustard painted pallets, the cartoon alpaca bedsheets—all swirl in my mind as potential additions to our home’s décor. I also love their garden. It’s wild but managed, and the cute butterfly signage makes me think the current green tufts will soon be flowering, nectar-filled invitations.
The place we’re staying is small—a single room, with a curtain-doored bathroom. But the largest TV I’ve ever seen is perched on an armoire. Currently, I’m writing with a wriggling Evelyn nearby, her body tracing S-curves across those alpaca sheets I mentioned. They’re soft—I’m sure they feel good against her skin—while she rests on a twin folding cushion next to the queen bed Dave and I are on.
It’s lights-out time, and I’m torn. To write more or not. I feel guilty for stopping. The quota—five, six, seven paragraphs—that I arbitrarily set somewhere along the way hasn’t quite been met.
I once learned from an editor at the Seattle Times how to write paragraphs. If I remember correctly, they only need a couple of sentences.
If they’re too long, our attention wanes. So keep them short.
Keep them different. Keep the reader engaged.
Ooh—I made it to six. No, wait… this is seven. The internal flag for success is flying, and now I can finally get some shut-eye.
Okily dokily, I’ll be seeing you in Orlando, Florida—perhaps after I’ve checked in and taken fifty trips back and forth to the car, completely exhausted. Hopefully, I can sneak in some pool time in that 84-degree weather tomorrow.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 