I'm fairly well convinced at this point that I was a travel agent in another life. I'm still scraping off the residue in this life. Ever since I planned my first tropical vacation, I've been fixated on seeking out beach homes to visit. If the house is big and sits in the sand like this one, I spend WAY too much time trying to figure out how I can afford $300 a night to go stay there. I temper the frivolity of this by telling myself that I need to get away to write. I need to find the perfect place to hole up in so I can get at the work I'm meant to do. I haven't quite convinced the poor and puritanical parts of myself that I NEED a hot tub with an ocean view to get my writing done, but I'm hoping if I stare at this picture long enough I will someday wake up there with my feet bubbling in the jets and my notebook filled with perfect words.