I was ten, the first time I sailed a dinghy. The boat was a sabot, and the coach at the sailing
club drew three lipstick lines on the gunwale of the boat: reach, run, work. I spent summers
sailing for several years, and then returned to it in my adult life, sailing single-handed racing
dinghies for pleasure for many years. All of which is to say that I have thousands of small-
boat sailing hours. And in those thousands of hours of social sailing, I have never injured
myself.

I’m leading with that caveat because the story I’m about to tell you doesn’t reflect well on
me.

A few years ago, I decided to join my local sailing club and learn to race single-handed
dinghies, which I hadn’t done since childhood. On sailing boats, the boom is the pole that
attaches to the mast and holds the sail in place. When you turn the boat into the wind, the
boom swings across the boat. And on a small boat, you need to duck when this happens.

One Saturday, one of my companions smacked his head on the boom. The following week,
my partner did the same. How did you manage that, I asked him? If you’re paying attention
there is no reason to ever smack your head. You know where your body is, and you know
where the boom is.

I know you can see where this is going. Pride comes before…

But this is not about pride. It’s about attention.

So, the following week, I was sailing the dinghy (it’s called a Laser, and they are really great
fun) while a few of my sailing buddies watched from a small motorboat. I was on a beautiful
line, the boat angled to the side while I leant out from the gunwale. I was quite taken with
how spectacularly I was sailing, how impressed those watching would be. Another sailor was
a little ahead of me, and I decided that I was going to nip in behind him, steal his wind, and
win the race. More than that, I was going to mightily impress my audience in the motorboat. I
looked over to them, to make sure they were watching. They were.

I puffed my chest. I gybed into the wind.

I heard the clunk of the boom before I felt anything. My first thought was “how
embarrassing.” And in the moment that I spent thinking about how embarrassed I was, the
boom swung back and hit me again.

There was an ambulance, there were stitches, and there was a salutary reminder.

There was, sadly, no-one to blame but myself for my sore head and wounded ego. And the
reason? I stopped focusing on the moment and focused instead on the audience.

In creative pursuits, you’re less likely to end up with stitches, but the same rule applies.
Forget the audience. Forget the agent, the publisher, the market.

When you are in the middle of making, of creating (or of sailing) the only thing you need to
attend to is the moment. Attend to the sheer joy of the thing: the wind, the wilderness, the
word.

So today, begin with a sentence. Let it lead you to the next one. Ask it what happens next.
Keep listening to your own words, following each sentence as though it were a paving stone,
laid out in a path for you to find your way, one moment at a time. Today, forget about the
audience.

Your prompt for today:

Beneath the surface