No, it's not the beach, though I can be tempted. Or the pool. Or weeks and weeks of travel.The eternal issue for me as a writer is the siren song of the garden. During the winter, I'm tempted to tackle the big house issues, like closets and attic, but the temptation isn't overwhelming. Summer, however, pulls me into the yard like a piece of death-by-chocolate cake. My very own triple layer cake, with one fork. I see where the beds need work, plants that long to be moved to other spots, bushes crying out for a trim. If I don't get in a bit of outdoors with my snips or a shovel, I'm one unhappy writer.
Nature doesn't play a big role in my writing. I don't use plants or fauna unless they're clues. Place can be a character and often is. I love to use atmosphere based on location. Think of a moss-draped tree hiding a house, barely covered with remnants of white paint. The possibilities are infinite and often can be based on clichés. But don't clichés carry kernels of truth that everyone recognizes?
I'm going to make my fanny stick to my desk chair this coming week, even though there's a rose bush that needs spraying. It'll have to fight the buggies by itself for a few days, at least.