I wonder what it means that I feel most productive sitting at a picnic table in the middle of the night, the damp seeping into my clothes to the sounds of moths exploding inside the propane lamp. Yesterday my daughter asked me why I rarely crawl into the tent when she and her mother do. "I like to work when I'm here," I told her. "You're nocturnal," she replied. Yes, I am. But the freedom I feel when I'm sitting outside here goes deeper than that. I only notice what's important when I'm here. All the distractions dissolve into the sound of waves crashing on the shore.