But when I'm sea sick, the question of writing is not even a question, but a denial that I could even build a boat that could float in a bathtub, let alone be modeled into a glass bottle.

Those sea sick times are when my spirit's dehydrated, when I need to splash into the water, dive headlong before I'm marched off a plank.

Which reminds me of summer, hopping off the diving board into an inner tube, floating on the water. That target looked so small I couldn't imagine how I would fit. But then Joe jumped in and Joe is three times my size, height, and girth. So I leapt and slid right through to the pool floor.

Writing is like diving. I don't know that I'm very good at it and am sometimes afraid to try. What if I go in with my head twisted just so and the impact of the water is somehow a centrifugal force disrupting my ANS, instigating a spinal collapse, and I drown unnoticed at the bottom of the pool?

I learned how to do a back dive this summer. Somehow, diving in backwards feels less risky than forward, which I've yet to actually accomplish with grace.

That's how writing is like diving, like water, like sailing. As long as I don't really know what I'm getting myself into, I'll be fine.

But back to the class--free writing time's up.