A Writer's Day in Costa Rica: A Guest Post by Willa Goodfellow
I’m on maternity leave! During this time, a few of my favorite authors offered to step up and write guest posts so that this blog would remain active while I adjust to my new role as a mother. I may also be a bit slower to respond. Thanks for understanding and for being so supportive of me, my family, and my blog. Want to donate a few dollars to keep this blog running or perhaps contribute to my diaper fund? You can do so on Venmo or Paypal.
A Writer's Day in Costa Rica: A Guest Post by Willa Goodfellow
I spent June of 2022 in Playas del Coco, Costa Rica. It was a working trip. Yes, really. No scuba, no zip lines, no hot springs for me. I was researching my next book, Bar Tales of Costa Rica.
When working on Prozac Monologues, I wrote like a demon all day. By 4 PM it was time to kick back. Off I would go to my sister’s restaurant, the Pato Loco “Crazy Duck” for happy hour. There, a gathering of hotel guests and happy expats would be telling stories of . . . varying quality. When I heard a good one, I would head home to record it—just the dialogue, not even noting who was speaking.
During the pandemic I turned these notes into stories. Once my publisher indicated interest, it was time to polish.
My writing schedule in Coco is the same as my stateside schedule, with adjustments for environment. Down south the howler monkeys wake me at 5. Their growl sounds like a muffler dragging on concrete. If I linger in bed, wasting the coolest part of the day, the kiskadees call me out at 5:30 with their birdsong—kiss-ka-dee. Breakfast by 7:30, then an hour for chores before the house heats up to 95 degrees.
My office in Coco is stark. Two desks, two chairs, a day bed, one window with curtains kept shut against the heat, a trunk that serves as a credenza for the three file folders I brought south—that’s it. Not surrounded by books, my son’s childhood artwork, bills, post-it notes, I have no distractions and nothing to do but write. The one essential—it has an air conditioner, excellent incentive to get in there and work.
I write and edit in the morning. Lunch, then a cool shower and siesta. When my wife travels with me, we have a post-siesta coffee and nibble of chocolate and report the progress on our respective projects back in that air-conditioned office. Without her, I have my coffee in front of the screen.
Afternoons are given over to the other half of a writer’s life. Once a book is published, promotion begins, and work that follows from it. For me that means blogging, pitching podcasts, and preparing trainings on mental health, the subject of Prozac Monologues.
On Fridays, my writers’ group meets by Zoom to read and critique each other’s work. Good writers keep learning how to write better. Bar Tales is clearly better for the comments of my colleagues.
At 4 PM, I release myself from the office. By this trip, I had all the tales I needed. Instead of happy hour, I walked around town gathering sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and sensations to bring the stories to life.
One evening I returned to the beach club location of a particular tale. There was a woman standing next to her padded table in the sand, ready to give a massage by the sound of ocean waves. So I asked her, “What’s that tree that frames our sunset view?” She knew the name. Of course she knew. In Costa Rica every grade school child knows the names of the plants and animals that surround them. “Malinche,” she said into a voice memo on my phone. I looked it up later and learned that Malinche is a woman, a major figure in Mexican history. Flame tree is another name given for the tree, after its scarlet blossoms that look like fire.
Headed home, I passed the grocery store’s cab stand. A sign once hung over the bench where the drivers sat, waiting for fares. That’s where I could find Carlos, my mother’s personal taxista. The sign said, “Do not sit here to drink your beer. This is where the cabdrivers sit to drink their beer.” – Yeah, that sign went into the tale about looking for Carlos to drive us to my birthday party.
What colors are the neighborhood rooster’s feathers? What is the carving on the Pato Loco’s front door? How do I describe the geckos’ chatter? What month is it when I am overcome by the aroma of rotting mangos in a sunny field near my house?
Usually, writers do this kind of research with search engines. I did some, too. I didn’t remember what kind of car Antonello drove. Could it have been a 2002 Nissan Sentra? Was Nissan making Sentras in 2002? Were they for sale in Costa Rica?
“No more tales!” I told my sister. “I am not adding any more tales!” But over an afternoon beer, she told me about the time she had to break into the restaurant’s safe. . .
I love my job.
A Writer's Day in Costa Rica: A Guest Post by Willa Goodfellow
