Folly Beach 4

 

 

September 9,2020

Rain through most of the night, misting sweet rain on the sand now. The virtual book festival went well last night, I think.  The observation I most want to make is that my book, or at least my reading, was best by levels of magnitude. Whether this is actually true or something I need to hear myself say is something for others to decide. Last year’s winner, my successor, is thin and full of complaint—like the author, I know now. This year’s, read in a thick Spanish accent trying to imitate a Southern drawl, was unintelligible. I’ll have to read it on the page, though I probably never will.  They sent a fourth book which wasn’t discussed, essentially a manual on body hair fetishism. I think the authors’ discussions they always have are probably pointless, though having said that, I realize I was inspired by it, and full of vigor for writing this rainy morning at the beach.

Long walk to begin the day. Sat under the pier and wrote. Met the pier caretaker and two people hunting sharks’ teeth in the surf. I tried not to think “you’re standing too close.” Saw my first boogieboard, and the use of such. Walked too much, came back after lunch at Rita’s over-tired and on the verge of sickness. It’s a new world for me physically, or there’s something I overlook.