It had been a long hike, and now in the boat he was laying comfortably in the ropes with a blanket over him and sailcloth.  He was tired and his muscles were stiffening, tightening within joints and about him, and everything told him to rest.  He drifted in sleep, vaguely hearing the thunk of the occasional oar reverberating against the wood and the water, the sound of the blade patiently in the sea's lapping currents.  The creak of the mast, the stiffening of ropes, the sounds of the air.  The corner of his mouth was wet and he remembered a dream, wiped his mouth his hand and went back to sleep.  Beneath him, the sea, and all its fishy creatures, heard through the bottom of the boat.

It takes a long time to think of things.  They will only occur to you with age.  The Brothers Karamazov did not occur to Dostoevsky as a young man.

Then on top of that you have to get your writing muscles in shape.  Which is hard when they have not been well put to use of late.

To a writer, everything is game.  The things he would write about, or say, naturally, are too much for other people, probably, for one thing, because they worry about you.