When Work Feels Like a Vacation

There’s something odd about working remotely and running your own show, especially when it’s something you love doing. I wrapped up my client(s) work early – not because I was rushing or watching the clock, but because I’d hit that sweet spot where the to-do list was done and my brain decided it had had enough for the day. I closed the laptop, stretched, and looked out the window toward the lake. It hit me: this feels like I’m on vacation.

The funny thing is, I’m not. There’s no suitcase in the corner. I haven’t booked time off. My inbox will still be waiting for me tomorrow morning. But there’s a certain magic in the way this place, and this way of working, blurs the lines between “work mode” and “holiday mode.” I think it’s a combination of factors, and they all work together in a way that’s hard to replicate in a traditional job setting.

First, there’s the lake itself. Whether it’s shimmering in the late-morning sun or lying still under a blanket of haze, it has that same effect as a beach scene on an Instagram post – an immediate lowering of the shoulders. You can’t look at water and not feel a little lighter. Even on the most demanding days, I can take a quick break, gaze out, and feel like I’ve stepped outside of the grind.

Then there’s the pace of life here. I’ve mentioned it before, but I now live in cottage country, where the pace is much slower than in the city. Remote work has stripped away so many of the daily irritations that eat into mental bandwidth. There’s no commute, no idling at traffic lights, no parking lot shuffles. I don’t have to set aside half an hour to find my car buried under snow in the winter or weave through construction detours in the summer. That time goes back into my day, and it shows up as a calmer rhythm. Oh, yes, I’m busy; sometimes I work until 8 p.m., but it’s just different because the next day I may shut it down at 2 p.m., something I couldn’t do in a corporate office. 

There’s also a different social tempo. I’m not dodging the office chatterbox or pretending to be busy while someone unloads the weekend’s drama. Here, “noise” is birdsong, a boat engine in the distance, or the slap of water against the shore.

Working in a place like this brings a sense of autonomy that’s impossible to overstate. When the day’s work is done, I’m not stuck in a cube, waiting for 5 p.m. to roll around. I can close the lid on the laptop and be outside in minutes. That shift from keyboard to shoreline is as immediate as walking from a hotel room to the beach on vacation.

The lack of a commute also changes the mental math. In the city, you finish work but still have that travel time before you’re “free.” Here, when I stop working, I’m already home. That extra time isn’t just more time – it’s better time. Time I can fill with something that recharges me instead of drains me.

The combination of the view, the pace, and the freedom creates something more powerful than all three on their own: a mindset shift. My brain doesn’t file “work” and “rest” into two rigid categories anymore. I can be productive and still feel relaxed, because my surroundings don’t scream hustle.

On vacation, part of the joy is that you’re somewhere designed for enjoyment;  a place that invites you to slow down. Here, I get to work from such a place every day. It doesn’t mean the deadlines aren’t real or that the work doesn’t matter; it means the environment is working with me, rather than against me.

Of course, it’s not perfect. There are still foggy Mondays when the brain takes a little more coaxing to kick into gear. There are still moments of frustration, internet outages that sometimes occur in small towns, and the occasional burst of noise from the outside world. And when I do wrap up before the traditional end of the workday, having met all my deadlines, I sometimes feel anxious – as if I am somehow cheating and should be doing more, working until 5 p.m. But even on those days, the balance tips toward peace instead of pressure. And that’s probably why this feeling, this odd sense of being “away” while staying put, happens. It’s not that I’ve tricked myself into thinking I’m on vacation; it’s that I’ve built a routine and a location that give me the parts of vacation that matter most: the change of pace, the environment, the space to breathe.

I think this is the hidden perk of remote work that doesn’t get talked about as much. We hear about flexibility and cost savings, about avoiding commutes and having more time for family. But there’s also this quieter, subtler benefit: the ability to create a life where work doesn’t feel like a daily grind, and where the good parts of “time off” sneak into your everyday.

And on a beautiful day like this, with the lake just outside and the workday behind me, it’s easy to believe that maybe I’ve figured out a way to carry a little vacation with me all year long. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading outdoors for a nature walk – right outside my door. 

Rant No. 11: The Eater-on-the-Phone (and the Table Texter)

It’s Tuesday, so it’s time for another rant. Let’s talk about something that probably drives you up the wall, too, and that is getting a phone call from someone who’s clearly eating while they’re talking. I’m talking about the full soundscape: the slurping, the chewing, the lip-smacking, the crunching of chips, or the scraping/clanking of a fork against a plate. It’s like I’m being invited to a dinner theater production of “Gross Table Manners: The Musical.”

I know we’re all busy, but if you’re calling me, I’d like the courtesy of your actual attention. Finish your meal, wipe your mouth, and then give me a ring. I’m not your dinner guest. I didn’t sign up for the sound effects. And while I’m at it, let’s talk about lunch meetings. If you invited me out, presumably because you wanted to catch up or discuss something important, put the phone away. Nothing says “you’re not that important” like watching you answer texts, take calls, and generally ignore me while I’m trying to have a conversation with you.

It’s simple: If you’re eating, call me later. If we’re at lunch, let’s actually have lunch. Otherwise, just send me a calendar invite to listen to you chew and watch you scroll your social media feeds. And if you can’t give me your full attention for five minutes, because, after all, you invited me, do us both a favor and eat your lunch alone, and let me get back to enjoying my day.

You Can’t Make This Stuff Up: The Musical Chairs Brigade

It’s Monday and like most people, I’m grinding my way through it with a series of video calls followed by plenty of writing. I start getting antsy, and with the library closed on Mondays, I head to the hangout, as I call it. Thankfully, it is quiet. The sun is shining, and the restaurant is humming along with that deceptively calm “we’ve got this” vibe. Well, almost. Here comes a group of eight that will be a problem table for whoever serves them.

Now, you’d think eight people finding one table big enough for them would be an accomplishment in itself. But no. This group decided to make seating arrangements the main entertainment of the day.

First table? Nah, not good enough for them. Too drafty. Too close to the kitchen. Too… something. Loudly, they gather their drinks and shuffle over to a second table. Servers exchange knowing glances — yep, it’s going to be that kind of day.

Then the server approaches, ready to finally take an order, and suddenly, the group wants to sit outside. Never mind that it’s prime time, the patio is packed, and there’s not a table in sight. They’re shocked — shocked! — that this is somehow not possible. So now you’ve got eight adults pouting like kids denied recess, while the server is silently calculating how much of their life they’ll never get back. Then, get this, they tell the server that four can sit outside and the rest are okay sitting inside. The server walks by me unleashing profanities under her breath. Now, normally I don’t like hearing that kind of language but in this case, I totally get it. Oh, we’re not done yet, they then decide, no, we’d all like to sit outside when a table opens up. There are different servers for inside and outside so now inside server has to check with outside server if she wouldn’t mind taking an extra table in the unopened section. Outside server sighs with resignation. Yeah, sure.

Picture it: a herd of indecisive diners treating the restaurant like a giant game of musical chairs. Servers-are-about-to-kill-them section? Also yes. Because while everyone else is trying not to laugh at the absurdity while feeling sorry for the servers, the servers are quietly asking themselves, “Why didn’t I just go to law school?”

Rant No. 10: When Did Restaurants Decide They Were Nightclubs?

I’m pissed off. As you read on, you’ll find out that I’m not the only one. When the hell did restaurants decide they were nightclubs at all hours of the day or night? All I wanted was a seat, a meal, and a chance to get a little work done. You know, the basics. A Monday afternoon—nothing fancy. Just me, my laptop, and the faint hope of completing what I had started the previous day at the library. What did I get instead? A full-blown sonic assault. It felt like I had walked into Club Chicken Wrap, featuring DJ Ear Bleed—not a sit-down restaurant with booths, pub food, and coffee refills. The music wasn’t background ambiance. It was front and center, crashing down from overhead speakers like a tidal wave of bass.

I’m not the only one who’s noticed this on more than one occasion. Many customers have complained about the loud music in this establishment, but it’s fallen on deaf ears (pun intended). It’s not just work-from-anywhere folks like me who are trying to focus—it’s couples, seniors, families, people just trying to, you know, talk. You can see it on their faces as they lean in and raise their voices just to be heard. When the server comes to ask a question, my default reply now—often even if I did hear them—is, “Sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying. The music’s too loud.”

Because it is, it doesn’t matter where you sit. The bar? Blasting. The back corner? Blasting. On the other side? Blasting. On the patio? Blasting. It’s inescapable. What’s the obsession here? Is someone under the impression that loud equals cool? That thundering music over lunch will make the place trendier and bring more business? It doesn’t. It pisses people off.

It makes it harder to enjoy the food, harder to talk, and way harder to relax. What it also does is have the servers practically yell to each other so they can be heard above whatever some rapper is bitching about now. And it turns what could have been a peaceful work session or a family of four having a meal out of the house into an exercise in sensory endurance. Now, to be fair, a little music is great. A thoughtful playlist playing at a respectful volume? Love it. But when the music is so overpowering that it becomes the experience itself, rather than enhancing it? That’s a problem. Here’s a wild idea, management: why not ask your customers what they think? I mean, really ask. A short survey, a simple table card, even just a “Hey, how’s the volume today?” from your servers. You might be surprised by what you hear—assuming the customers can hear you over the beat.

People don’t come to restaurants to hear Alanis Morissette complain about how unfair life is; they come for food, connection, and a break from the day. And if they have to shout to order a sandwich or repeat themselves three times over a salad, they might just stop coming altogether. I support local. I eat out more than I should. And I understand —ambiance matters. But maybe it’s time to recognize that too much ambiance becomes noise. Maybe it’s also time to realize that quiet is also ambience. So, to the restaurant managers of the world—especially those running day shifts with half-empty dining rooms—lower the damn volume! Let people talk, think, read, work, relax. You’re not hosting a stadium concert with seventy thousand fans. You’re serving grilled cheese and iced tea.

And to my fellow laptop nomads? I feel your pain. Let’s start a quiet revolution—one booth at a time.

Why Coup de Ville is a Hidden Gem of 1990s Cinema

“Coup de Ville,” directed by Joe Roth and released in 1990, is a heartfelt and charming road movie that deftly balances humor and emotion. Starring Patrick Dempsey, Arye Gross, and Daniel Stern, the film centers on three estranged brothers who embark on a cross-country journey to deliver a vintage Cadillac for their mother’s birthday. While the premise may seem simple, the film’s strength lies in its rich character dynamics and the deep exploration of family relationships, making it a hidden gem of the early 1990s.

The story begins with the three brothers, each leading a very different life and possessing a distinct personality. Marvin (Daniel Stern), the eldest, is a responsible and uptight sergeant in the Air Force. The middle brother, Buddy (Ayre Gross), is a neurotic and directionless dreamer. The youngest, Bobby (Patrick Dempsey), is a rebellious and carefree drifter. Their father, Fred (Alan Arkin), brings them together for the seemingly simple task of driving a 1954 Cadillac Coupe de Ville from Detroit to Miami for their mother’s 50th birthday. However, the journey quickly becomes a test of their patience, resilience, and brotherly bond.

The film’s narrative structure is built around the brothers’ evolving relationships, and it skillfully uses the road trip as a backdrop for their personal growth. The brothers initially struggle to connect, burdened by years of estrangement, misunderstandings, jealousy, and competition. However, as they travel south, they begin to reconcile their differences and rediscover the bonds that once united them. The journey is filled with comedic misadventures, heartfelt conversations, and moments of introspection that gradually peel away their defenses, revealing the deep-seated love and respect they have for one another.

Patrick Dempsey shines as Bobby, the youngest and most free-spirited brother. Dempsey’s performance captures Bobby’s youthful energy and rebellious nature, as well as his vulnerability and yearning for acceptance. His portrayal of Bobby is both endearing and relatable, making him a sympathetic character despite his flaws. Ayre Gross’s Buddy is the comic relief of the trio, with his neurotic tendencies and constant bickering providing much of the film’s humor. His timing and delivery are impeccable, and he manages to infuse Buddy with a depth that goes beyond the stereotypical middle child. Daniel Stern as Marvin provides a grounded and steadying presence, embodying the responsible but somewhat rigid elder brother who learns to loosen up over the course of the trip.

Alan Arkin’s role as the father, Fred, is pivotal, despite his relatively limited screen time. Arkin brings a blend of sternness and warmth to the character, making Fred a believable patriarch whose intentions, though sometimes misguided, are rooted in love for his family. His plan to have his sons bond through this road trip, while initially seeming manipulative, ultimately reveals his deep understanding of their need to reconnect.

The screenplay, written by Mike Binder, is both witty and poignant, striking a balance between humor and genuine emotional depth. The dialogues are sharp and often humorous, capturing the essence of sibling rivalry and camaraderie. The film’s comedic moments are well-executed, providing levity without undermining the more serious undertones of the story. The narrative arc is both predictable and satisfying, with the brothers’ journey culminating in a heartwarming and cathartic resolution.

Joe Roth’s direction keeps the film’s pace brisk, ensuring that the story remains engaging throughout. The cinematography effectively captures the varied landscapes of America, from bustling cities to quiet rural roads, enhancing the sense of adventure and discovery. The film’s soundtrack, featuring a blend of classic rock and original compositions, complements the story’s nostalgic and emotional tones.

One of the film’s greatest strengths is its universal appeal. The themes of family, forgiveness, and self-discovery resonate deeply, making “Coup de Ville” a relatable and touching experience for a broad audience. The film avoids overly sentimental clichés, opting instead for a more authentic portrayal of family dynamics. The characters are well-drawn and believable, their interactions grounded in genuine emotion and complexity.

Despite its merits, “Coup de Ville” did not receive widespread acclaim upon its release, and it remains relatively underappreciated among road trip movies. However, its charm and emotional resonance have earned it a loyal following among those who appreciate its understated brilliance.

“Coup de Ville” is a touching film that deftly explores the complexities of family relationships through the lens of a road trip. With standout performances from Patrick Dempsey, Daniel Stern, and Arye Gross, and a well-crafted screenplay, the film offers a perfect blend of humor and heart. It is a timeless story of reconciliation and growth, reminding us of the enduring bonds of family and the power of forgiveness. For those seeking a movie that combines laughter with genuine emotional depth, “Coup de Ville” is a journey well worth taking.

Rant No. 9: Someone Had To Write That

There’s a strange thing I’ve noticed for years, and that is that people often don’t know what I do. Or if they think they do, they get it wrong. Wildly wrong. I tell them I write for a living: content of every kind, blogs, ghostwriting, features, PR, sometimes scripts or thought leadership pieces, and much more — and their eyes glaze over. Or they ask, “So you write books?” Or, “For a newspaper and magazines?” (sometimes I do). Or my favorite: “Oh, can you write something for my website (for free, of course)?” 

Most people outside the creative world don’t realize that everything they read—on websites, brochures, magazines, social media, menus, instruction manuals, ad campaigns, you name it —was written and edited by someone, even in these days of AI. A real person, or people, fact-checked, ensured it flowed well, and made final edits and proofread the document before it went public. This often happens under a tight deadline, especially after the client changes direction three times and thinks each change will take five minutes and is no trouble. Well, it’s no trouble and part of my job when it’s reasonable, but when you go back and forth fourteen times (yes, I counted with one client/friend that I walked away from) because they can’t make up their minds, it’s infuriating. I learned from that experience years ago and now deliver a Project Intake Template to them, and I don’t work unless the client fills it out. Once I have that, I send a detailed quote and don’t care if it’s a friend or someone else. 

It doesn’t matter if it’s a 2,500-word feature, a social media post, or a five-word tagline. It took time and thought. It took someone staring at a blank screen and making it say something clear, useful, and compelling.

The public sees the finished product that did not, repeat, did not, magically appear on the page without work involved. They don’t see the drafts, the rewrites and the feedback loop that often includes more people than the client said it would, and the customer who loved one draft, font, or design yesterday but now hates it. The public doesn’t realize that you can’t just “whip something up and work your magic” in five minutes. Not if you want quality. They don’t realize that changing one portion of a piece may require adjustments elsewhere to ensure it still flows. To the outside world, it just exists. No process. No people. Just words and pictures in print or online – or both. 

And I’ve learned this isn’t just my experience; it’s nearly universal among creatives. Photographers, designers, editors, illustrators, voiceover artists, screenwriters—you name it. We’re all quietly building the things people scroll past, skip through, or print out without a second thought.

It’s not that we need applause. But a little awareness wouldn’t hurt because anyone can write—sure. But few can write well. Fewer still can do it consistently, daily, under client pressure, under deadline pressure, in someone else’s voice, and make it sound effortless. So the next time you read something that makes you think, smile, act, or understand? Remember that someone had to write that.

Why Mondays Feel Like Walking Through Wet Cement

Have you ever had one of those Mondays where it feels like the world is moving in slow motion—and you’re not entirely sure you’re part of it? You’re awake. Technically. You got out of bed. You even managed to put together something resembling breakfast. But your brain? Your energy? Your ability to care? Still lagging behind, like they missed the bus to Monday entirely. Yeah. That was me this morning.

And let’s be honest—it’s not just me. There’s something about Mondays that feels heavier than the rest of the week. Like you’re wading through a mental fog you can’t quite shake. I finished a big assignment today and submitted it on time. I should’ve felt motivated, accomplished. Instead, today felt like my brain had been packed in cotton balls and wrapped in plastic cling wrap. So what gives? Why does Monday hit like this, even when you’re doing the right things but everything feels a bit off, even when you’re hammering away at whatever it is you have to get done? It turns out there are several fundamental reasons.

The weekend jet lag is real. Even if you’re not out clubbing or binge-watching Netflix until 4 a.m., chances are your sleep and eating schedule changes on the weekend. Maybe you go to bed later. Maybe you sleep in. Perhaps you shared a large pizza or thirty breaded chicken wings and several beers with your friend after 11 p.m., on Saturday night. It’s subtle, but that shift—called social jet lag—can mess with your body’s internal clock even two days later. And on Monday, the system tries to recalibrate. The result is that you feel off, even if you technically got “enough” sleep.

The brain reboot takes time. Let’s talk about sleep inertia. That’s the groggy, disoriented feeling you get when you wake up from deep sleep—and it can last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. If your body is used to slower weekend starts, Monday might yank you out of deep sleep before you’re ready, and your brain spends the morning playing catch-up.

Weekends give us space to decompress, to socialize, to do absolutely nothing if we want to. Even if the weekend wasn’t particularly eventful, there’s still freedom baked into it. Come Monday, you’re back to deadlines, expectations, and structure. That reentry can feel like emotional whiplash. No wonder we’re dragging.

Monday is when everything you didn’t do on Friday afternoon suddenly reappears like an uninvited guest. Emails, errands, to-dos. And let’s not forget the new tasks that emerged over the weekend and are now demanding attention. It’s like your brain logs on and instantly gets swamped with a week’s worth of pop-up ads.

Weekends often give us a natural boost of dopamine. Novelty, pleasure, downtime, social connection. Monday strips that away and replaces it with repetition, routine, and responsibilities.

It’s not just you, and this part is important: there is nothing wrong with you if Mondays hit like a ton of bricks. No, you’re not lazy, broken, or falling behind. You are human and experiencing what many feel but do not discuss outside of coffee breaks or in whispers at the office.

So what helps? I wish I had a magic fix. I don’t. But here’s what sometimes helps me crawl out of that cement: Don’t overcommit your Monday. Ease into the week if you can. Save the heavy lifts, including online meetings, for Tuesday and the rest of the week. Hydrate. Move. Stretch. Yes, I know. Eye roll because you and I know it, but Mondays are, well, Mondays. However, minor physical resets can clear more fog than you might think. Ditch the guilt. Seriously. The pressure to feel “on” just makes the fog thicker. Tiny wins count. You answered three emails? Win. You got some work done? Win. Stack those little wins and let them snowball.

Mondays may always feel like you are walking through that wet cement. However, my own experience is that I showed up, started, and completed an assignment; I wrote this blog; I responded to emails; and I chipped away at things. No, I wasn’t “on fire” today, and maybe you weren’t either, but I didn’t disappear either. If you experienced that weird foggy Monday feeling today or any Monday, you’re not alone. You’re allowed to ease in and feel off. You’re normal.

Revisiting The 1973 Road Movie “Scarecrow”

Have you ever heard of the 1973 movie “Scarecrow”? No? Well, don’t feel bad; it’s one of those forgotten classics that didn’t do well at the box office despite starring Gene Hackman and Al Pacino. “Scarecrow,” directed by Jerry Schatzberg, is a poignant and introspective road movie featuring two of the biggest stars of the day in two of their most compelling roles. The film is an exploration of friendship, disillusionment, and the quest for meaning in the lives of two drifters. It is a piece of cinema that quietly resonates with its audience through its character-driven narrative and the magnetic performances of its leads.

The story centers on Max Millan (Gene Hackman), a gruff and bitter ex-convict with dreams of opening a car wash in Pittsburgh, and Francis Lionel “Lion” Delbuchi (Al Pacino), a quirky and optimistic former sailor. They meet by chance while hitchhiking and quickly form an unlikely and often uneasy partnership. Max is hard-edged and cynical, a man whose years in prison have left him distrustful and hardened. In contrast, Lion is almost childlike in his innocence and whimsical outlook on life. He believes that laughter is the key to disarming people and navigating the world, a belief symbolized by his “scarecrow” theory — that a scarecrow isn’t frightening, but rather, it is funny and therefore, non-threatening.

The film’s strength lies in its character development and the dynamic between Max and Lion. Hackman and Pacino deliver masterful performances that bring depth and authenticity to their characters. Hackman portrays Max with a simmering intensity, a man constantly on the edge, whose dream of a car wash represents his desperate need for stability and purpose. Pacino, on the other hand, infuses Lion with a disarming charm and a sense of vulnerability. His portrayal of Lion is tender and heart-wrenching, particularly as his past and his reasons for drifting come to light.

Jerry Schatzberg’s direction is understated yet effective, allowing the characters and their journey to take center stage. The cinematography, with its emphasis on the vast and often desolate American landscape, underscores the themes of isolation and the search for belonging. The film avoids melodrama, instead opting for a realistic portrayal of two men trying to make sense of their lives in a world that often seems indifferent to their existence.

“Scarecrow” is not a plot-driven movie; rather, it is a character study and a meditation on the human condition. The episodic structure of the film, with Max and Lion encountering various people and situations, serves to highlight their contrasting worldviews and deepen their bond. There are moments of humor, pathos, and tension, each contributing to the gradual unraveling of their characters.

One of the most powerful aspects of the film is its exploration of the theme of disillusionment. Both Max and Lion are dreamers in their own ways, but harsh realities continuously thwart their dreams. Max’s dream of a car wash is a symbol of his desire for a normal life, yet his abrasive nature and past experiences make it a distant goal. Lion’s journey to reunite with his estranged wife and child reveals the deep wounds of abandonment and the fragile nature of his optimism.

The film’s climax is both devastating and inevitable, a testament to the unpredictability of life and the resilience of the human spirit. The final scenes, where the characters’ dreams and hopes are brought to a shattering confrontation with reality, leave a lasting impact on the viewer. It serves as a sobering reminder of the fragility of human aspirations and the often cruel twists of fate.

“Scarecrow” was not a commercial success upon its release, possibly due to its melancholic tone and unconventional narrative structure. However, it has since gained recognition as a classic of 1970s American cinema, appreciated for its emotional depth and the remarkable performances of its lead actors. The film won the Grand Prix at the 1973 Cannes Film Festival, a testament to its artistic merit and the profound impact it had on those who appreciated its quiet power.

“Scarecrow” is a film that lingers in the mind long after the credits roll. It is a beautifully crafted exploration of friendship, dreams, and the human condition, brought to life by the extraordinary talents of Gene Hackman and Al Pacino. Jerry Schatzberg’s direction and the film’s evocative cinematography create a compelling portrait of two lost souls navigating the harsh landscapes of America and their own personal struggles. “Scarecrow” is a timeless piece of cinema that continues to resonate with audiences, offering a poignant and unflinching look at the complexities of life and the bonds that sustain us through its challenges. It’s available in a variety of formats and I highly recommend it.

Rant No. 8: When Did Libraries Become So Noisy?

There was a time when the public library was a sanctuary of silence. A refuge for readers, writers, thinkers, and the occasional soul seeking shelter from the noise of the world. A temple where whispers were the only language, and the creak of a chair or the shuffle of a page-turn could draw glances. Respectful, focused, almost reverent. Remember that? Now the library feels more like a cross between a rec center and a coffee shop, with the volume cranked up. 

Look, I’m all for libraries evolving. Today’s libraries are supposed to be community hubs and accessible to everyone. They’re not just about books anymore—they host workshops, craft corners, movie nights, and kids’ reading circles. Great. But can we draw the line somewhere? Somewhere before it becomes a glorified daycare with screaming toddlers, sing-alongs, and a PA system that sounds like it belongs at a hockey rink?

And here’s the part that gets me. The loudest people in the entire building? The librarians. That’s right. The same folks who used to glare over the rim of their glasses if you dared to unzip your backpack too briskly are now hollering across the room to their co-worker about when to take their lunch break, or slamming books down on the cart. Or recounting their weekend plans while straightening the shelves, at full conversational volume. Meanwhile, some poor teenagers get shushed for watching a TikTok with the volume on low. The irony is rich.

I often work from the library because the Wi-Fi is outstanding. I live in a small town, so the home WiFi can sometimes be iffy. The library is one of the few quiet public spaces that don’t require buying a $6 latte to use the Wi-Fi. Or at least, that’s the theory. The reality is that “quiet” is now relative. A concept. A myth passed down from elders who once studied for exams in libraries where silence was sacred. Today, the “quiet area” sign, if one is posted, might as well be printed in invisible ink.

To be clear, I’m not blaming the kids. They’re kids. If you build a Lego table, put out finger puppets, and run a scavenger hunt at 11 a.m., they will act like it’s recess. They’re doing exactly what they’re told: having fun. But don’t call it a library space anymore. Call it what it is—an indoor playground with the occasional copy of Charlotte’s Web on a nearby shelf.

But librarians? Come on. You should know better. You are the last line of defense for those trying to focus, write, read, or think. You can’t shout across the room like you’re at a backyard barbecue and then pivot into “Excuse me, please lower your voice” mode when a patron answers a phone call. That’s not leadership; that’s hypocrisy.

It’s not about being a curmudgeon. It’s about respecting the core function of what a library is still supposed to be, at least in part. If everything is noise, where do people go to find silence outside of nature? If the library isn’t a quiet place anymore, what is?

So here’s a modest proposal: designate and enforce real quiet zones. Not performatively. Not selectively. Actually enforce them. And maybe install some doors to keep the kiddie chaos in the children’s wing where it belongs. And please, librarians of the world—lead by example. Use your inside voice. Or better yet, use your library voice and don’t slam cupboards when looking for something. Some of us are just trying to write something worthwhile over here.

The Photos I Lost and the Memories I’m Rebuilding

I lost a phone a few years ago (haven’t we all at least once). However, it wasn’t just any phone; it was a full one. It was a digital vault and a time capsule of moments, places, and feelings I didn’t want to forget. And with it, I lost the photos. There were hundreds of pictures of my trips across the American Southwest, little towns in West Virginia and the Carolinas that looked like time had packed up and left. Yes, there were the usual tourist (me) photos of the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, Monument Valley, and Virginia Beach with its god of the sea Neptune statue, among others. However, there were also photos of ghost towns in Arizona, Alberta, Texas, New Mexico, and the eerie calm of the Salton Sea. There were photos of a stretch of Route 66 where the silence was the attraction, and Maryland blue crab just pulled out of the ocean and now on my plate. There were photos of well, you get the idea. 

Gone. All of it.  No cloud backup. No external storage. Just gone. At first, it felt like someone had erased part of my memory. Not just the pretty pictures—the proof. The evidence that I’d been there. That I’d stood in front of that canyon, eaten in that roadside diner, talked to that man outside the gas station somewhere in South Carolina who told me about the town’s only stoplight and an unsolved murder. I was angry with myself because I was careless and lazy. 

But then something happened. Once the panic faded, I realized the memories weren’t actually gone. They were still there—just quieter. I could still see the ridges of Zabriskie Point in my head. I still feel the sense of awe and history I had walking through Tombstone, Kayenta, and other places in Arizona and across the Deep South and west. I could still smell the paint in that El Centro motel I bailed on within five minutes. I bailed because the smell was so strong (it was the last room available) I figured I’d wake up with a pounding headache from the fumes or not at all. I could still hear the gravel crunch under my tires on some back road near Naco, Arizona and the Mexican border and picture the exact shade of red in the dirt along Highway 64 in northern Arizona.

And you know what? Those images in my brain were better than the photos. Because the phone didn’t capture how I felt, it didn’t capture the beautiful exhaustion of a road trip that gave way to wonder as I turned down so many sideroads to satisfy my curiosity. The quiet moments when I sat in a plastic chair with a paper plate of genuine Mexican food, watching the sun go down in a town whose name I can’t remember—but whose peace I’ll never forget. The photos were gone. But the stories? They stuck.

I think that’s what made me start writing about it all. Maybe at first, it was a way to rebuild what I lost. But now, it feels like something more. A kind of second chance. A new way to document everything—not in pixels, but in paragraphs. It turns out that writing forces you to remember differently. Deeper. You can’t scroll through a file for a sunset—you have to recreate it. What did the sky look like? What did the air smell like? Who else was there? And what was I thinking in that exact moment as I stared out at the water in Gulf Shores, Alabama? 

And sometimes you remember things you didn’t even realize you’d kept. Like the way the wind sounded at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Or how the desert at dusk makes you feel small in the best possible way. Or the particular quiet that falls over a dying coal town, where even the dogs seem to walk slower.

So, no—I don’t have those photos anymore, and I’ve never been one to post selfies on social media captioned with, “Here I am at … ” But I’ve got the moments in my mind. And now, I’m writing them down. Not just for me, but maybe for someone else out there who thought they needed to capture everything perfectly just to remember it at all. You don’t. You just have to live it fully and be there. Take photos, sure. But be there. The lesson? Back up your damn photos. Yes. Please do that. But more importantly, don’t confuse the photo with the memory. A great shot can remind you of a place, sure. But living it—that’s what stays. I’ll keep taking pictures, but now I back them up like a responsible adult. I’ve learned that even when the tech fails, the mind remembers. The heart remembers. And if you write it all down before it fades, you end up with something more substantial than any camera. You end up with a life you can read and write about, and that is what I am doing now. Oh, boy, do I have a lot of writing to do because many of these adventures are currently in draft form – and yes, they are stored in the cloud and soon to come pouring out in this blog.