Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Pittstown Point, Bahamas

0 nm
Wind: E-SE 10-15 knots, gusting higher in afternoon squall

Our life is settling into a routine. We wake up in the morning, drink coffee, then Karl goes to shore and I sit at home and do housewife-y things and try to be a writer. My housewife task of the day is making pizza, which Karl specifically requested. It’s hard really to do anything out here because it’s so hot and rolly. It’s hard for me to even focus on the words on the screen because I have to focus so hard on not rolling over with the boat. I suppose it’s good for my abdominal muscles. But really frustrating.

Karl asked me last night why I didn’t spend all day yesterday writing. I was rather proud of myself for all of the other things I had done, so the question stung a little. He’s right, though. We had decided when we were at Samana that we were going to try to find someplace where Karl could work ashore and I could sit still and write for eight hours a day. I’ve always said that was what I needed. Virginia Woolf called it a room of one’s own. I always meant that I needed an office where I could go and shut the door and not be disturbed by anything for a full work day. Unless I can have that kind of independence of thought I’m not sure I can ever work up anything worth getting paid for.

Blogging is different. I can sit down and write whatever first comes into my head, no matter how stupid it is. I rarely edit these entries, which is probably to my detriment. In some ways, writing journal entries while I’m out here trying not to stare blankly at the blank computer screen is just another form of procrastination. That way I don’t have to deal with the reality of my ambition, the fear that I might not really have anything to say.

What makes things worse is the sun beating down on my shoulders, the flies buzzing relentlessly (where in the world do they come from?), and neglected duties staring accusingly at me from the sidelines. I still have dough to knead and the endless dishes to clean. I don’t know how writers ever do it. How can they? How can they find that much silence in their own heads?

Anyway, to work. Maybe I’ll be able to squeeze something out of my subconsciousness.

No comments: