Pantsed and Free
Following a great lunch with a distant friend on a hot Seattle day, I returned to the ferry terminal: homebound. Sports delayed sailings — soccer balls somehow interfere with boats — and as a consequence, my on-time arrival was a nautical wait. Before I settled in, I chose to use the restroom where an unexpected and unassuming muse had done the same calculus.
Four chest-high porcelain urinals adorn the northern wall of the men's restroom. To choose one requires a survey of the whole quartet, and my inspection yielded one unremarkable occupant, whom I judged to be no older than my father. What was quite remarkable, however, were the black shorts at his knees — not at all different from my peers learning to use the facilities when I was a boy.
The pre-embark incident still garners disproportionate attention, now an hour later on my ride home. But I bore the bare bum no mind— I'm actually pensive about pantsing.
Now, pedants would note that the man was, in fact, wearing shorts, but they would be wrong: had he been wearing shorts, this blog would not exist. But just like the man, my takeaway is unconcerned with clothing. I find myself pondering authors who "pants" their stories.
The term recently graced my eyes when an outline resulted in terminal (the terrestrial kind) writer's block, successfully erasing all motivation to make progress. In an effort to continue writing, I discovered other pantsers who swear by it, proudly writing by the seat of their pants and unearthing substance more-or-less organically.
I find myself wistfully admiring the depantsed urinator, for pantsing also requires two things: the right mood and brazen execution. Though the failures look quite different.
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