I go to the beach most days. Same spot. I drop my backpack on a white rock, take off my shirt, wade in. Waist deep, I dive — surface on my back — and paddle slowly out to the count of 100.
It’s far enough to be quiet and solitary, but not so far that I wonder what’s underneath me.
Some days I float there. Still water. Still mind. Everything else — the shore, the days, the rest of life — recedes. The moment stretches out, before and after everything.
That feeling — of observing something subtle change, of sensing a shift so small it barely counts as an event — is what first made me ask:
Could you write a novel that feels like this?
Could you describe the sea’s movements — its texture, its silence, its moods — as a kind of story? Could you create drama out of stillness?
