It’s another brutal week of summer, and every time I open my front door, I stop in my tracks and ask myself whether my sanity is really worth this heat. I actually don’t mind the sun beating down; give me a hundred degrees, and I will breathe through it without flinching. But sweat is a different story. If you didn’t know this about me, I refuse to go to the gym or do anything that might send moisture dripping down my back, because on the rare occasion that I do break a sweat, I want to tear my own fricken skin off. It is that itchy. I think I am allergic to my own sweat, and if that is not a perfect excuse to avoid public sweating, I do not know what is.
This week, I’ve caught myself wondering if I’m doing anything right; if what I’m doing is enough; if I’m on the right path. But the truth is, I think I think too much. Which is probably the main diagnosable cause of my life’s insistent writing. I’m trying to share more of my writing because I’m really, really bad at letting people in, trying to actually ‘sher’ Sheridan, haha. Anyone who’s crossed paths with me knows this: there have definitely been times when I’ve dropped off the face of the earth for six months or even a couple of years. I haven’t done that in a while, but I still go quiet for a few days at a time.
For all of you, I’m assuming quarantine was your first taste of true isolation, but by the time the world shut down, that solitude felt normal to me, even peaceful. I was so overworked and exhausted by my career that when I heard everyone was staying home, I smiled, turned off my phone, and slept for what felt like forever. In that moment, I experienced an unparalleled sense of peace.
On a lighter note, I finally indulged myself with the most beautiful leather-bound notebook. It has a wraparound cover, refillable inserts, and that perfect, slightly toothy paper that begs to be written on. Holding it transports me back to another century, complete with quill and ink. The only snag is that my current notebook still has a quarter of its pages blank. I adopted the three-morning-pages ritual from The Artist’s Way, a simple practice of writing three unedited pages before breakfast, closing the book, and never looking back. But lately I have been on fire, cranking out ten pages a day, mostly daydreams about cracking open that new journal. I cannot wait until the last page is filled so I can leap into the next one. And yes, I treated myself to a new gold pen. Every writer deserves a touch of shine in her hand.
Like I mentioned last week, I’ve continued to stay committed to producing more songs. My poems have always leaned toward rhythm rather than rhyme, so adapting them into verses and choruses feels almost like my second nature. And to continue branching out with people and writing, I did actually just get back from a local writers’ group held in a tucked-away library room. We gathered around and were given the prompt “Because I am here.” We had eleven minutes to capture a moment of utter peace without relying on nature descriptions. I admit that I bent the rule; I wove in both my emotions and a hint of Maine’s coastline because some memories demand their setting. Here is the passage that poured onto the page:
. . .
Because I am here, I peer out the window with only glass separating my face from the salty air, insisting I breathe it in. A tune I cannot name drifts through the speakers and then to my ears, though I recognize it the instant it begins. And when I hear it again, my body and all its senses are dragged back to the hot leather backseat of my grandfather’s car, where I shimmy my legs back and forth, trying to ease the burning sensation of leather cooked before it cooks me.
I try to push the window down to get a better listen to the ocean waving hello at me. The window doesn’t move. I tug at the stubborn thing; it refuses to budge. I turn forward where my father and his father share their love of the same music while sharing the same deep‑throat laugh.
“Dad, Grampie,” I say.
They turn as their laughter and music fade and say, “Yes, Sheridan,” and turn their attention toward me.
“Can I open my window?” I ask.
They smile, turn back around to face the front, and then my grandfather takes one hand off the steering wheel to push my window down.
I stick my head out the window and breathe in Maine’s air that had been following me, and I hear the ocean’s hello. I take a deep breath and whisper back, “Hello, Ocean.”
. . .
My mind drifts back to that exact moment whenever a certain feeling washes over me. It’s as if the chemical makeup of my brain shifts right back to that day. When I hear that one song, even though I can’t recall its name or hum its melody, I instantly recognize it. Within five seconds, I’m sitting in that spot again, hot leather and salty Maine’s coast air. I see every detail, hear every sound, smell the air, and feel every emotion all over again.
I remember crying in that moment, not out of sorrow, but because I knew I needed to preserve that moment forever. I sat, tears streaming, determined to memorize everything around me. I cataloged each sensation in my mind, as if I could freeze time and steal that moment for myself. I wanted to carry it with me, to have it on hand whenever I needed it.
So I sat and cried in the backseat while my father and his father shared the front, and I etched every sight, sound, and feeling into my memory. I captured that stolen moment and made it mine forever, so that no matter where I go or what I face, I can always return to that place of clarity, peace, and certainty.
That flash of memory reminds me why I write. It forces me to notice every crack of leather, every echo of laughter, and every inhale of salty air. It teaches me that genuine peace can be found in the smallest details, and that capturing those details is worth every ounce of discomfort…no sweat required. 💋
Thank you for reading through my sweaty confessions, my notebook obsessions, and my creative adventures. I promise to keep inviting you behind the scenes, even when I retreat into my own head.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
WhatSheridanSaid.com
Life Behind the Artist: Wed at 9/8C
