Writers are the most tormented of all the different categories of artists that are out there in the world. — Janvier Chouteu-Chando

Procrastination is a time-honored tradition among writers. We stare at the screen while looking for any and every distraction to avoid doing it. The edge of the void can be a scary wary place. No one knows where the words come from. What if they don’t come? Or what if they do, and then the visions stop? What if it sucks? (Pro tip: It usually does.)

There’s an old joke that writers have clean houses. You’re sitting there, drinking coffee as if it’s the antidote to a cobra bite, maybe the words aren’t flowing, or maybe they are and well, you don’t trust it. You’re not sure. The whole thing just bothers you. Suddenly, cleaning the toilet, weeding the garden, and picking the cat hairs out of the beater brush in the vacuum cleaner seem very important. Critical, even.

I think there’s a pill for this. I don’t take it.

Enter the aquarium. This is a distraction par excellence and, one might argue, more fun than scooping that one little poop out of the cat litter box. It is certainly healthier than surfing the internet, in that you won’t feel so trashy afterward. On my desk next to the monitor, I recently upgraded to a 10-gallon tank. There isn’t much room on the desk now aside from some valuable real estate where I keep my special clutter.

At some point, I had the idea of turning my new tank into a riparium. This setup re-creates the edge of a pond or stream, where things grow in that marginal space between the land and the water. It’s a lovely part of an ecosystem and a spectacular way to filter an aquarium. So now there are plants growing from the water, their stems and roots all tangled around everything beneath like an overgrown mausoleum in a gothic horror tale. Underwater plants growing amidst the hardscape create a happy place for cherry shrimps, bladder snails, Endler guppies, and otocinclus catfish (who appear to be hiding).

This baby is still in its early stages, but you get the idea. I’m hoping the impatiens bloom. And the schefflera, well, if it likes this arrangement, it will get big. Really big. I’ll need a plan.

Tinkering with something like this is boundless. It’s a work of art, and every little thing, how it feels, where it is, how it interacts with things around it, is important. It’s a living, breathing entity, always in motion, always expanding, always whole. And like a character in a novel, it does what it wants to do, despite my best laid plans.

Yeah, with this thing sitting on my desk, it’s a miracle I ever manage to write anything.

Seriously though, I am working on Masters of the Veil, Book Three in The Fylking. No, really. I am.

 
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