The Art of the Beachcomber

I did not know when I moved to Minneapolis for grad school that I’d live a 13-minute bike ride away from a beach. In the warm months, I’d often head to the nearby lakefront with a can of seltzer and whatever I had to read for class. After swimming, I’d drape myself across the toast-colored sand and eavesdrop on the stoned, hula-hooping teenagers and sarong-draped octogenarians. Soon, I’d tell myself. You’ll be productive soon. And so the afternoon would pass.

One September day, while reading and rereading a paragraph of critical theory, I became aware of a young woman scanning the shore with the beeping snout of a metal detector. Dressed in quick-dry hiking pants, she moved methodically, her expression unreadable. Every so often she stopped to examine something then toss it back. She did this with very little visible exasperation. She knew her process. I do not remember if she pocketed anything, but her pants had many pockets. One of two things seemed true. Either the beachcomber was searching for one thing in particular—a fallen earring, a misplaced ring—or she was searching for anything that would make the machine sing. 

It’s a relief to admit, now, that I will never succeed at reading anything dense at the beach. My. My engine was curiosity. I wanted to write things that oscillated between self and world, making visible both the friction and the porousness between the two. It wasn’t until that day, watching the woman sweep the sand for treasures, that the path of my own writing process clicked. Sometimes I did research because I wanted to find particular evidence or facts, but often I just wanted to wander the shore. If I once thought this phase was inefficient, a waste of time, I now cultivate the patience of the beachcomber. I give myself permission to pick up anything that might be shiny, and hold it to the light. Training myself as a writer means learning when to pocket something, and when to set it down and walk away.