The Sargasso Sea and me

I am becalmed, the rudder fouled with lank, slimy seaweed. The wet, green smell of it permeates everything, and I feel dull and sluggish.

In other words, I'm not being particularly productive, and there's not a lot of external pressure on me at the moment. "Oh, happy day," I should be crying. "Oh, happy day, time to focus and really crank out the words!" But no. One of my pathologies is that the less pressure there is, the less I produce.

I'm embarrassed to tell you all how it is I keep writing in times like this (for one must always, always keep writing). But I will, for you are my friends: I take a few minutes to daydream about what success will look like. I cast my favorite actors in my as-yet unwritten plays. I set up tables in my favorite bookstores for the signings. I imagine the laser-like intensity of a room full of teenage writers as I workshop their pieces with them. Sure, I write for the joy of writing. But (and I know it's unfashionable to admit this, but there you are) I also write to accomplish.

Apparently I'm considered to be unusually driven in my relentless push for accomplishment. But every writer who's achieved the things I want to achieve has been at least as relentless as I. And so I clear the rudder, reset the sails, put my hand to the tiller, and spend a moment daydreaming.

Wait — did I just feel the breeze pick up?