As kids we seemed to have been able to do this, that or anything almost as quickly as the thoughts came into our heads. Now as we've grown older the same things seem to take longer to bring to completion. It is as if time has slowed down while our reckoning of it has sped up. Days fly by and nothing gets done.
Last night as I sat at my desk, I stared at my typewriter and smoked a cigarette, waiting for inspiration to strike. The clock on top of the bookcase struck first. Ten o'clock. The last note of the Westminster chimes resounded for a full minute. I had been sitting there daydreaming for nearly three hours. The sheet of yellow legal-sized paper peeked around the roller with seventeen words typed on it, twelve of which I had already decided to scrap.
I sipped cold coffee and wished for someone to ring the doorbell so I would have a valid reason for leaving my desk. All my friends must be out of town this month. Nobody has been apologetically interrupting me in the midst of a brainstorm in weeks. And there I sat without a usable idea in my head.
