April 01: Calm. Heading NNW.

Here we are again. The thing about writing a log is it almost always has to be written immediately after you have finished it. And when you are not writing it, or particularly if you have avoided writing it, it shouts at you. Loudly. Then, when you sit down to write it, preparing yourself for a long session sprouting words from your fingers, things you never think about at all present themselves. Urgently. Like those boxes in your room waiting to be unpacked. The fact that you moved two years ago and haven’t bothered to even look in them doesm’t matter. When the blank page is staring at you, the boxes begin to demand attention.

“Help,” listless cry from the bedroom.

She looks up. “What the d…?”

“We’re so tired of sitting here collecting dust. Don’t you know it’s bad feng shui to pile us up in the corner like this? No wonder you can’t write.”

“What do you mean I can’t write. I’m writing now.”

“Are you? Aren’t you sitting there, thinking you can’t think of what to write about. Aren’t you wishing you were eating bacon and eggs and reading the paper at the diner down the street instead of sitting here between your unwashed dishes and your unpacked boxes trying to be creative?”

Door closing. The sound of a key turning in the lock is heard. Silence is heard. Or, not heard. Well, it’s silent.

I guess the bacon won.