Retired sea-captain-turned-novelist Captain Claw lives in the San Francisco Bay.
I awoke this morning to the sound of an oil tanker going full reverse against the force of the tidewaters. When I picked this cave, I hoped to get accustomed to these noises, but my sleeping crab brain refuses to recognize these sonic intrusions as nonthreatening. Hmph. Might be time to look for new digs today…
No! Need to stay on task. Write five pages a day. Soon enough I’ll have 500! Too many diversions lately.
Last night I made a trip to Fisherman’s Wharf. The place holds a strange fascination for me. The giant bronze crab sculpture implies a certain reverence for our kind, but it’s hard to reconcile that with the picture window where human families gather to watch a man break dead crabs into small edible pieces for their amusement.
Such a strange species is man! I watch them build fantastic structures along the shore as if by hubris alone they can hold back the rising ocean. Do they not realize what’s in store for them?
Distraction—ha! Like a trap it is! Must stay focused. One page at a time. If I ignore the oil tankers and the mental images of my brethren being torn limb from limb and dipped in cocktail sauce, nothing will stop me from having a productive session.