A Solo Writing Weekend in the Archipelago

Breathing sea air and working on my novel project

A boat speeds through the heavy fog. It’s the end of March, and the sea is cold still. Salty water sprays around it, splashes at its sides.

I’m squeezed in by the window, peeking out as evening falls around the boat. A sense of adventure battles with a twinge of anxiety. I’m tense.

The small boat is packed. I can see that they’re used to making this trip, the other passengers. They’re archipelago people, probably heading to a year-round summer house, or even home.

Me, I’m on uncharted waters.

The calling of the sea

Somewhere deep inside of me, there’s always a longing for the sea.

Part of it is probably spending my childhood summers on a tiny island in the Swedish archipelago. But it also feels like a deeply human longing. Something I can’t really explain or rationalise. Like it’s marked in my DNA.

I understand old-timey explorers. I understand the urge to go to sea. I get that longing to gaze at a blue horizon.

For a couple of years now, I’ve longed to see the archipelago in winter. My mum’s summer house is wonderful, but it’s not isolated for winter weather, and so I’ve only ever been in the archipelago in summer.

I crave a cold sea and icy, salty winds. Can’t really explain why. The longing is just there.

And so, here I am, finally, on a boat speeding out east of Stockholm, towards one of the last islands before the open sea. Sandhamn. I’ve been there before, in summer, and I love it.

Now I’m headed there, in the chill of early spring, alone. To write.

To Sandhamn

We arrive in the dark. I’ve booked two nights at the hotel, located just by the harbour. Checking in, I’m still a little tense. I’ve been nervous all week of catching another cold, having been sick for much of February and early March. Or (literally) missing the boat. Or something else going wrong.

I’m not used to solo trips.

My hotel room is quiet and I sit for a moment on the bed. Then I go to eat dinner.

The soft music of the hotel restaurant, the kind waiter, the clink of cutlery against plates, and guests chatting make me relax. I’m here. A weekend of writing lay before me.

Writing

After breakfast, I ask if I can sit in the restaurant and write.

“Of course”, the waiter says.

So I open up my laptop, I open my documents, I turn on my project playlist and I begin.

This novel project has not been off to a quick start. I’m about 10 percent into the draft, and that’s after a year of thinking, writing, deleting, trying and trying again.

But the wrestling has actually gotten me somewhere. I’m happy with its direction. Last weekend, I read through what I had written thus far, and besides some smaller notes, I felt satisfied.

Now, I let my fingers wander over the keyboard. I have a rough idea of the next couple of chapters, I know where I’m taking my characters next. I know how far I can write before I’ll likely need to pause to consider again.

The writing flows easily. I sip my coffee and gaze out at the few boats in the harbour. I write for about two hours. Then, it’s time to head out.

The sea

I walk to the beach at the most eastern part of the island. The air is icy cold and the sky overcast.

With a little smile on my face, I make my way as far out as I can get. I sit on a rock. Let the sound of the waves rolling restlessly wash over me. I breathe.

Sitting there, facing the ocean, I sense its timelessness. How it’s been here long before me, and will be here long after me. How it has caressed the rock beneath me for thousands of years. I feel like a bird, or seal, just a small part of a large ecosystem that yes, might be unbalanced and in danger, but also the water doesn’t care. It will keep rolling its waves, regardless of our human worries.

The salty air blows away the cobwebs that have gathered in my mind over winter. It fills my lungs with cold, humid, salty ocean air, my heart pumping sea-tinged oxygen through my body, through my synapses, clearing out old worries and dusty thoughts.

I feel alive. I feel free. I feel energised yet calm.

My fingers are stiff with cold as I walk back to the hotel. I change to a bathing suit and head to the spa.

Outside, there’s a wood burn sauna floating on the water. I sit in it, enjoy the heat, look out at the landscape of islands. I take a quick dip in the sea. It’s icy cold and burns, but in a good way.

More writing

I keep writing. I sit for hours in the restaurant, eat, drink coffee and let the story flow out of me. And it does flow. With a rhythm similar to the sea, it comes out in waves.

On my last day, the sun is out. I take another walk to the beach, and wish quietly that I lived here. Or, lived here sometimes.

I wonder if the sea would lose its magic if I saw it every day. Maybe.

Maybe visiting it now and then is the best way to enjoy it. To preserve that longing.

Heading back into Stockholm, I take the larger, slower boat. I drink tea, and write a last couple of paragraphs.

I’ve written about 4 000 words during the trip. Probably unimpressive to some writers, but it’s good for me. I’ve gotten to the point where I know I need to consider my next steps. Explore one side-character a little deeper.

I gaze out at a beautiful sunset over the sea. My mind is relaxed and satisfied. And I vow to come back. Do more solo writing trips. Respond to the calling of the sea.

My novel project will continue. It will bring me back to the ocean.

I call it: Project Seaglass.