Today a bombshell exploded in my face when I opened an email from Jane Dystel, my agent, and learned she does not expect to be able to sell my end-of life memoir. Over the summer Jane dutifully contacted over a dozen mainstream editors, and every single one turned her down. “Already have a similar project” … or “it’s too tough of a subject” … or “We published two books we loved about aging and dying parents, written by a caretaker child, and neither of those did nearly as well as we wanted.” Sometimes I feel like Sisyphus, pushing his old rock up the hill.
Should I give up? Continue laboring on? Switch to another project and let this one sleep for a while? Am I simply being a masochist? Why do I want to publish this book so much anyway with independent bookstores going out of business, e-books available for a mere $10, and not one established writer stepping up to defend the profession? Isn’t being a successful innkeeper enough? So, off I set for the ocean to digest. It was a perfect summer’s day. The blue-green water offered enough wave to entice tourists out of their usual sunbathing stupor.
A few stood near the tide line, watching for sharks. All that popped into view were the heads of three seals, which bounced along for a while until I tried to take a picture, at which point they dove underwater, evidently camera-shy. I passed a fisherman, whose hopeful gaze also scanned the horizon. How mesmerizing the ocean can be! 
The weekend storm had carved circular ledges into the shore, as if with a giant biscuit cutter. Each ledge belonged to a different person, who had staked his claim with a colorful beach umbrella. Some people wore smug smiles, pleased to have chosen this week of vacation, now that summer has finally dug in its heels. A rogue wave swept the beach. I rolled up the wet cuffs of my linen pants and continued on. Sandpipers hurried along beside me, also having trouble keeping their feet dry. 
I walked all the way down to Marconi and paused below the dune in an area with untouched, sun-bleached sand that felt good beneath my feet, solid, rock-hard. I liked the way the crust cracked open, setting off a minor avalanche for any sand fleas nearby. I did not come to any conclusion but walking out my anguish helped...
