We just got back last night (a lot later than planned) from our annual trip to the Oregon Coast. The vacation had been in the works for months and I took my laptop down with the intention of getting so much work done. I was hoping to be inspired by being on the ocean and there was even a loft for me to write. My parents were there too, to help with the kids and my plan was to hide away quite a bit and write, write, write.

Instead, I wrote less than 200 words the whole week.

Which is totally okay.

Instead of writing, I watched my daughter go from a taking just a few tentative steps, to toddling the full length of a room (and applauding herself when she got to the other side). I took my son to the aquarium for his birthday and saw how excited he was to experience all the tanks and exhibits there. I watched my kids devour (with great enthusiasm) huge scoops of Tillamook ice cream. I sat with my parents on the sand while my husband and kiddo flew kites and built sandcastles and played in the (freaking cold) ocean.

We came home with shells and rocks collected on the beach, way too many clothes from the outlets, and so many new memories.

When I left for the coast, the vacation was much-needed. My nerves were ragged thanks to some crazy renovation mishaps and I was stressed to the max that I wasn’t going to get my books done on time. I left for home feeling much more calm and recharged and yeah, I’m probably going to have to push back some deadlines, but that’s just fine. The books will be better for it.

On the drive home, I realized the story I’d been working on was actually the third in the series, not the second, and I plotted out the actual second book somewhere between Seattle and Mount Vernon.

This morning, I woke up with words in my head for the first time in a very long time and I can’t wait to get writing.