Historical Omniscience & The Hard Days

I've been trying my hardest to devote a small bit of time to writing every day.  I haven't really been successful or disciplined in my approach, but I figure that any small victory in my methods will result in me eventually becoming a better writer.  And so, I persist.

There are days when the words flow naturally, and I end up producing something that is relatively interesting.  When this happens, I feel the most profound sense of personal fulfillment.  This is is an extraordinary feeling, and it motivates me to continue.

Then there are days that what I produce is almost entirely uninspired.  I beat my head against the topic until I can coax the smallest amount of prose out, and even then, I'm left with something that I'm not at all proud of.  These are the moments that I become intimately familiar with my limitations and weaknesses.  I know that I must expect these sorts of days to happen, but they do nothing to feed the flames. Today was a day like this.

Here is my response to the following prompt from Brian Kiteley's The 3 A.M. Epiphany:

Historical Omniscience — Write about an event set well in the past, twenty or one hundred years ago. Write from above, as if by means of researched opinion (but I suggest that you do little actual research). By this I mean write about several historical characters or an interesting event, imagining any POV you want.

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     I always dreamed of sailing across the ocean. As a child, I imagined that there might be something on the other side of the water, perhaps some promised land where only the things that I wanted to happen would happen. I could run wild amongst the green hills until I found the perfect place to settle myself. Then I’d build a home, take a wife, and raise as many children as possible before my beard would grow long and grey. All I’d need is a big enough boat. The reality of travel on the sea is much less glamorous than I had dreamed of.

     At the end of an exceedingly unsuccessful search for work in Spain—little surprise given that my ruddy hair clearly identifies me as a foreigner, I snuck aboard a ship headed for the fabled “new world.” This is a capital offence, for which I am luck not to have been tossed overboard immediately. The captain shouted something in his Spanish, and I was dragged, according to the least gentle method the ship hands could devise, to the bottom of the ship. Here I was locked in a room. The “bergantín” as they call it. Occasionally, they would bring me water and less often a piece of stale bread or spoiled cheese.