A few years ago my family purchased an antique apothecary jar. It’s lovely, tall and delicate with a curving shape, the type of jar once used to store cotton balls or candy. We display it on a high shelf and fill it with beach glass.
There are two beaches near us where locals go to hunt for glass. The first, closest to our house, is the best. It’s rocky and not suitable for sun bathing, but walk there at low tide and you are likely to find fistfuls of sea glass, in colors ranging from brown to green to the coveted and rare blue.
At first, that’s where we went. My husband and I would stroll there after dinner and fill our pockets, or the kids would walk with friends and return to spread their plunder on the table, proudly showing off their haul. And little by little the apothecary jar, which one seemed so enormous, began to fill up. The more glass it contained, the more striking it appeared, the more I couldn’t wait to see what it would look like when it was full.
And then last summer, I was admiring the jar, the way the light played off the colors within and turned them into rich jewels, when it hit me. The layers of glass represented more than just a decoration. They stood for time with my family, for summers that were quickly passing by, for time that wouldn’t come again. Why was I rushing to fill it?
The realization hit just when, due to a myriad of reasons, I was struggling to find happiness in my writing and elsewhere. I was trying to force the outcomes I wanted, slogging through with my head down, sad and missing the beauty around me.
So I decided to make a change. Instead of scurrying to fill the apothecary jar as fast as possible, I’d slow down. I stopped going to the first beach, where sea glass was plentiful. I went to the second beach instead, the smaller one that was further away. It’s a tiny hidden cove, the length of three house fronts, and most days I was the only person there. I told myself I could take home as many pieces as I wanted, but I couldn’t leave until I found at least one.
Searching for sea glass became a very different experience. No longer was I finding five pieces in the first five minutes and then heading home. Instead, I walked the same stretch of beach over and over, scanning the tide line, poking aside seaweed and shells for the tiniest flash of reflected sunlight. I had time to be lulled by the hypnotic sound of the waves, by the warm sunlight, the roughness of the sand beneath my feet. The walks themselves, the hunt, became what I looked forward to, rather than the reward.
The glass I found also became more valued, because it was so much harder to find. Some days I went home with a single piece, barely larger than a splinter. Other days I pocketed three or more, all distinct and beautiful.
Now, when I look at the apothecary jar, I don’t see layers, I don’t see years. I see individual pieces of glass. I see moments. The brown, coin-shaped piece reminds me of the family on the beach with two toddlers who chased each other and the waves, shrieking with joy. The long green piece is from after a big storm, when the early morning air was especially fresh and clean. And the prized blue piece is from a twilight when the sky was moody and dark and a teenager brought his guitar out and treated me to an impromptu concert.
Six hundred plus words into this essay, and you may be wondering what this has to do with writing. It’s simply this, a lesson it seems everyone is learning these days, whether they wish to or not: Slow down. Lean into your writing. Let it fill the days. Savor your words, your sentences, your paragraphs, even if you are the only one to see them. Marvel at the way they string together. Stop looking so much at the end product — at finishing a novel, at getting read, getting published — and find joy in the process, at the single lines that stand out to you, shining, tiny miracles on a page.
And then, of course, make every sentence like that.
Your turn! Which sentences from your work in progress give you joy? Please share one here. I can’t wait to read them.
About Liz Michalski
Liz Michalski's (she/her) first novel, Evenfall, was published by Berkley Books (Penguin). Liz has been a reporter, an editor, and a freelance writer. In her previous life, she wrangled with ill-tempered horses and oversized show dogs. These days she's downsized to one husband, two children and a medium-sized mutt.
Lovely piece! I love beach-combing. Beauty, grace, miracles, all around us, every day.
From a chapter book: It was no ordinary mouse. It was a catnip mouse.
Love your comments on slowing down the writing. Here are a couple of sentences from my WIP, a historical romance novel:
Les looked deep into my eyes, his voice low and tender like he might bust out crying. “Emmalene, in my time, I might of favored some others, but that was before I met you.”
Sounds very hot Mary!
I love it now too, Vijaya. And I love the idea of a catnip mouse!
I’m struggling with the writing of the second novel in a trilogy, dealing with all that has happened in this year alone, and the dislocation caused by moving (by choice) from New Jersey to California to retire.
I had forgotten the part about the joy of how it comes together from all the many smoothed and rounded pieces that go in a scene. I’ll have to figure that part out again: I love the finished product, but the process is what takes the journey’s time.
I have my own sea glass. My mother and father collected it from the beaches in Acapulco on their walks, and gave each of their five daughters a glass jar with a glass lid. My parents are gone now, but their love for each other and for us is a strong and clear memory in those jars.
That’s a lovely remembrance of your parents, Alicia. Thank you for sharing. And I hope you can find the joy in writing again. Good luck with the move.
That rat was hers—nobody else’s rat, she announced. What kind of rat would steal somebody else’s rat?
That sounds like a fun read, Anna!
A beautiful essay. I try to slow down each time I sit to write, but am finding tremendous relief in the absence of appointments, though missing the time with friends and critique partners.
My works in progress are for 2-4 year olds – by way of sharing a favorite line: “Hello, Mirror – it’s just me…”
Thanks, Carol. When I’m not consumed with anxiety about the state of the world, the peace that comes from not rushing everywhere can be strangely calming, I agree. And I like your line — thanks for sharing!
An evocative essay full of lovely insight, Liz. I think regular walks in any sort of nature are a huge boon to writers or anyone striving through a creative endeavor. Having said that, I happen to believe that regular beach walks are a special blessing.
Most every day I am reminded how small I am, and by extension, how small my troubles are. I am reminded how enduring and yet ever-changing the natural world is. I am reawakened to wonder.
It’s a bountiful gift. Thanks for reminding me to slow down and really appreciate my blessings. Be well, my friend!
I always wonder and mean to ask Vaughn — is there sea glass on your beach? And I agree with the importance of nature. I’m avoiding the beach near us because of crowds but trying to get outside and walk every day. Wishing you and yours good health as well!
Yes, we have beach glass! Less lately, as the lake is so high. But I’ve found a few pieces this week. Doing better on heart rocks at the moment, and almost no crinoid fossils (the other two of our coveted beach walk “trifecta”). As with all things, abundance ebbs and flows with the surf. Thanks again.
Oh, and I tweeted at you with a photo. Here’s a link: https://twitter.com/VaughnRoycroft/status/1242459545206751234
Okay, confession time. I clicked on the link, Vaughn. Loved the photo. Could see some of those finds wire wrapped for pendants. Lovely! (I make jewelry in my spare (hah!) time.
Wish I had your eye and creativity, Judith! Sending you “heart”-felt best wishes, and perhaps a bit more spare time.
I took from this that I need to identify in my manuscript the lines and sections that are examples of good writing—the sea glass parts that stand out and are beautiful.
The pebbles that sustain the novel are also lovely, but not as dramatic.
I need to clear out the seaweed that covers up the pebbles and the sea glass. TY = now back to work.
That is a great analogy, Anne — thank you for sharing!
Beautiful post, Liz. I have many mementos in our house of different events, trips and adventures, but I love the sea glass reminders so much. I have sea glass displayed also, but they were a purchase with no special significance attached. I live on the coast in Southern California, so I know there has to be sea glass here and I’ll be on the lookout the next time I’m on the beach.
I hope you find some, Deborah. And thanks for stopping by!
Thanks, Liz. For me it is a time to reread and rethink. To find some sea glass (wonderful sentences and imagery) in my work and be joyful that it is there. And yes, I too have wandered beaches from the east coast to the west and found sea glass. As it glitters and reveals itself, we all hope that our words on the page do the same.
Your comment is so lovely and descriptive, Beth. Thank you for sharing.
What a beautiful post! Living in land-locked Alberta, Canada, I envy you being able to visit the beach. Small beaches are gems in themselves. I think we are all relearning how much more we can achieve by slowing down.
They just closed my favorite beach to all but residents, Victoria. I’m not a resident and will miss it terribly, but I’m going to try and find peace in long walks through my neighborhood instead.
I loved this (as well as sea glass). Your words spoke to me as my unfinished and neglected novel sits in the room. And as I sit captured in our upside-down world, I’m avoiding the novel (and research) by writing poetry. Thus, I will take your words to heart. What comes is what matters, the “tiny miracles.” “Distinct and beautiful.”
I’m doing the proofreading edits at the moment, so it’s about my 5th time through the story – assuming I haven’t lost count somewhere – and this line (from a character turned to living stone) still gives me a smile each time:
“Well, one does one’s best,” Porfiry said, trying to look modest and looking only like a Sculpture in Praise of Modesty.
Beautiful. Thank you for the reminder.