Truly, Smith Mountain Lake is a beautiful place. 

Something about being there in mid-November was especially serene. No jet skis, although I did spot one brave waterskier tucked into a wetsuit. But mostly, it was just quiet. The wind, strong all weekend, was a constant companion, trying to shake the last of the leaves from the trees. Even inside, on the topmost floor of the house, we’d watch them floating past the windows, finally felled by the breeze to the ground below.

I tried to work on my novel, but the cursor just blinked in the middle of chapter forty-four—not mocking me, exactly, but giggling. Like it knew I wasn’t sure where to go next. So I closed the document and just enjoyed the view.

I don’t believe in writer’s block. Maybe writer’s pause—when the characters have fallen silent and the cursor ticks away the seconds where you haven’t typed a word. I try not to get frustrated. I know my friends will talk to me again. I trust them, even when I don’t always trust myself. 

I’d hoped the weekend would feel like a writing retreat—no family, no dogs, no internet. A time to push through this chapter that hasn’t moved forward in more than a week. But no, not today. Or yesterday. Or the day before.

And now the work week looms ahead: seven long nightshifts at the hospital. Sometimes, it’s slow, and I get a few paragraphs down in between calls. But I can’t count on that. My weeks off are supposed to be my productive times. But this week wasn’t.

A writer’s pause.

But this weekend at the lake was still a retreat for me. Sometimes, just experiencing the world is enough. It fills the well, even when the words run dry. Maybe Melissa, my character, will go to the lake. Maybe there will be a lake in my next story. Maybe this was simply time to enjoy the beauty of a landscape away from the mountains, away from the grind of everyday life. 

The pause will end at some point; it always does. In the meantime, I have to trust the silence. Let it hold me. And try not to think too hard about the stillness—in my manuscript, in my inbox. I have to accept that quiet is a part of living.

And living is always a win.