I squint, typing against the glare of the sun sparkling off the water. Bob reads a book opposite me, his wavy hair almost white in the brightness.  I have never used Bob’s laptop on the boat, though he offers me free access to it. As I look at the screen, I feel the visceral stirrings of a complex. Use the laptop if you must, but don’t write that woman stuff on it, says a stern voice in my head. I continue typing. My breath gets shallow, my legs squirm under the cockpit table. I think of practical things I could be doing, accomplishments that would be tangible and praiseworthy. The dinghy needs a good wash. Bob would be pleased. But I continue typing, putting one word after another – bird by bird, as Anne Lamott would say – all the while thinking that it isn’t just a complex that kept me from writing on board these three years that we have owned Whalesong, our thirty-four foot sloop.  It’s logistics, too. For example, it has taken me half an hour to type the first paragraph of this essay, not because I am slow of wit or fingers, nor am I, at this moment, plagued by writer’s block. If you think practical things get in the way of writing at home, try it on a sailboat. Read more… »