In a lamp-lit barn by the ocean’s edge, the writer sits at a desk adorned with books and pens and manuscripts and a hand-carved bowl filled with shells found on early morning walks along the wrack line. A woven blanket drapes, like a long hug, about her shoulders. And at her feet lies an old dog in soft slumber, its paws tapping at the air as though in chase of a rabbit. The coffee pot exudes a rich Colombian scent, and through the open window, morning’s first salted breeze arrives and it’s hard to tell which is more blue, the sea or the sky.