I almost didn’t post this photo. The first thing I saw when I looked at it wasn’t the incredible sea, or the painted sky, or even Riley, trailing in my l wake. What I saw was the heft of my shoulders, the width of my back, the unflattering scrape of my hair. I forced myself to stop. To step back, until I was far enough for my focus to shift. To look at it with someone else’s eyes. I am a novelist. The crux of the craft is the ability to step out of your own mind, and into someone else’s. So why, then, is it so hard to step out of this? To appreciate the strength and the beauty of the wild place where I have spent summer days? To see myself, as strangers might, as my dog must, as a body strong enough to lead her across the dunes, to run with her through the surf?