All sorts of sea imagery occurs: fog, heavy waves, riding the wake of larger boat, but sometimes in the however-long-it-is I’ve been writing (thirteen years and four months) I have found myself becalmed – ooh look, there’s another one.
Stuck, in other words; dispirited, in another. There seems to be no particular way of dealing with it, other than to hope it passes: a favourable wind blows, clouds part, etc. etc. Sometimes it looks like it’s going to be fine for a while but, like a weather app, it changes its mind two hours later (don’t get me started on weather apps).
Occasionally, all hope goes. I stare, like the mariner, over the side of the ship, and know that in thirty years or so I’ll be waylaying a stranger on his way to a wedding, saying, ‘I tried to write a novel once…’
Anyway, the clouds seem to be lifting, which is why I felt able to write this.
(For wiser people saying much the same thing, try: http://lithub.com/8-famous-writers-writing-about-not-writing/)