Early Days in the Sargasso Sea

The day began later than usual after nearly two more days of nearly non-stop sleep. Sometime during the last umpteen hours, a concept took root in my brain. I expected it to express itself in the form of a short story, but when I tried to set it in motion, neither my fingers nor my brain were cooperative. The resistance I encountered insisted the basis of the storyline was far too intricate to fit into a short story—even a long one. Nothing short of a full-length novel would accommodate the story I wanted to tell. Had I switched gears and started to write that novel, I am confident the first few pages or paragraphs would join the dozens of others hibernating on my hard disk or on thumb drives resting uncomfortably in a desk drawer. My perpetual problem: inadequate discipline made worse by waning interest and loss of belief in my ability to finish the project. The enthusiasm that fuels the first few pages or paragraphs is like compressed gas in a propane tank. The smallest pinhole allows it to escape into the atmosphere. Another problem is that my fingers cannot keep pace with my brain. The words on the screen lag far behind those in my head, the distance between them increasing with every beat of my heart. If I try to get an upper hand on the problem by initiating a competition with myself, I quickly realize I am not in the same league as my competitor. Even if he intentionally put the brakes on his productivity, I cannot keep up. Damn. If nothing else, I’ll keep in my WordPress file folder my very short draft of this morning’s abysmal failure. At least I’ll have something to trigger my memory if something sparks my creativity. I can always continue where I left off. Or I can simply resurrect the names of the characters I began creating: Perfidia Adebayo, Insidia Aaberg, and Ephemera Foreva. Perhaps using more traditional names would help? Names I might find easier to remember?

+++

My earliest recollections about the Sargasso Sea and Sargassum seaweed are from my early years in Corpus Christi. I do not recall with certainty whether I learned about them in school or during optional “classes” held at the Corpus Christi Museum; probably the latter. Memories of the free classes at the museum are dim and vague, but I think attendance was a reward of some sort. Sometimes, memory fragments—buried beneath layers of Time and the detritus of unexpected incidents and unfortunate accidents—are exhumed in response to inquiries made by simple circumstance or demands made by experience. The relevance of memories is never assured, but sometimes crucial to understanding.