The Foaming Action Means He’s Working

It never fails, or cease to surprise me that I make a few posts to get back into the swing of things and the universe decides to pull me apart. That’s not an excuse, but an explanation nonetheless. I had the most ambitious of personal lists on the three-day time span: outside lighting to install, a yard to clean, clothes to launder, and books to write. I gained such momentum I crashed completely into a brick wall producing a solid paragraph of new material. [Insert Expletive Here]

The relative peace brought by the Labor Day weekend rallied a fierce week of deadlines and customer service challenges making my calves hurt more than getting stood up on your Prom night for Gary, the more well-to-do son of a chiropractor. That’s where I keep most of my stress, and I need to sit down after a while of brooding over people and their obstacles. Side Note: Kelly, I’m glad you showed me your true colors quickly.

So, as I said, I only made a paragraph’s progress on Sunday. That’s pitiful. In lieu of providing anything new to me, how about something new (mostly) to you? Here’s an excerpt from when I was writing back in March.

“Every lump on your face will match that of your gravy!” The sous-chef slapped his saucier enough to make eyes water. His stubs wrenched the pot and heaved it towards an open window. “Make it again, and quick. We’re already an hour behind.” A cuisinier snuck a peek over the stove to catch a ladle in the face. “If this night doesn’t go well, it doesn’t take me to tell you we’ll all be dead by morning.” This made for a typical event night with Gerard Grossecul shading a boundary between fact and melodrama as he explosively smacked the tile on his way to the dining room.

Screams rattled the pins on the sewing desk and down the hall straight out through the wood and iron latticed doors of the estate’s couture house. Mostly bare, a handmaiden scrambled for the chamber door only to be clocked by a half-clothed mannequin. Gathering herself, and the rest of her garments, off the floor she hid behind the wardrobe. The Seamstress Premier Naedlbán took up her shears and pointed it at the wimping wench. “If you can’t sew these seems properly I’ll rip you apart and show you!” Spoiling her tin of threaded spools, she charged at the young lady and buried her scissors in the knotted woodwork. Slowly creeping to the fresh face she whispered, “…and if that doesn’t work, I’ll cut those wretched fingers off. They aren’t doing you any good.”

I’m sure I’ll need to re-read the whole thing once it’s completed in draft format, but it seems to fit together enough that I don’t feel like scrapping the whole thing.

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Tuesday, June 10th, 2014

I’ve tried to quit smoking. I really have. There have been several times I’ve torn up a mostly-full pack and thrown away the lighter. Other times I’ve woken up with pain in my ribs, vowing never to light up again. Yet, here I sit this morning after being outside with another menthol.

It’s hard, at times, to accept the root causes for me to do something so dangerous. Other times, I just don’t care. Why am I “saving” myself? After decades of bad timing or poor fits that I’ll find someone I can share this pent-up love? I’ll be wealthy enough to travel the world and not give a flip about paying the bills? I can go anywhere and feel like a friend? As society sits right now, I doubt it. I’m being trampled by other people’s ambition and their human nature.  A nature of all the vices and judgment they swear not to do, yet commit all the same. They call them “rights”.

Smoking is my seppuku. I’ve dishonored my master, America, and not bought into the aggressiveness that wins her favor. It’s a savage thought that is considered “healthy” by her. It’s a ruthlessness that she smiles upon. “Grab her! Take her! She doesn’t understand anything else!” Lady Liberty chides with rusted teeth. “You are animal! She is animal! She demands assertion!” …and so she rewards.

Reserved in nature. Virtuous in spirit. Prudence in money. Controlled in temper. These are all Holy wafers that burn upon the skull of the red, white, and blue madam. They are all treated in suspect and shied away as a Nosferatu would garlic.

I would like to remain positive. I would like to give the people of this world a false sense of hope, as movies and books do. It makes them feel less guilty, less culpable, and they can go back to their business as usual. However, I’m not sure that can happen. Bad things happen to good people.

Sunday, May 25th, 2014 – Why Do You Write?

It would seem bad form not to tell you the results of my letter writing campaign to the Ohio House of Representatives. Out of 99 representatives contacted, only 4 had replied with an actual response. There were 5 others who had the auto-response system set up, but that’s not really acceptable. Of those 4 representatives who took the time to respond, only one was longer than two sentences. Even though he wasn’t my district representative, I enjoyed our conversation. Funny how ten sentences can brighten one’s day.

Now, on with the blog hop as requested by Laura Lynn from  Cancer: My Journey Back to Health-Kicking & Screaming the Whole Damn Way. Yeah, it’s a chain post and I’m not huge on them, but it’s Laura Lynn. She has been nice to me for as long as I’ve known her.

What am I working on?

In the short-term nothing. I’ve picked up a new organization (BNI) in April, which has some elements of Kiwanis/Rotary International without the community outreach element. I think of it as a business dating service where the “dates” are referred business. You get to know and trust the people in your group and refer clients in need of member services to them. Most members are local merchants anyway. So, you’re helping out people in your community get more business to stay in business. This has taken much of my time in the past five weeks, and I don’t regret it.

In the long-term, I’ve always got My City by the Bay, which I haven’t finished. It’ll need a new title (sorry, Steve Perry). I stopped when I hit a logic gap in a pursuit scene. The back of my mind has been telling me that no seasoned detective would let the suspect drive off after he visited his girlfriend’s apartment. They could question the girlfriend later, if they lose him but they need to follow the suspect further. Personally, with all of the writing improvements I’ve learned in the past year, I’d like to rework the entire story including a VERY edgy part that dealt with bigotry and racism in the non-lofty, street-level, day-to-day sense.

Too many Americans want to take this topic and make it all lofty, when the application is so flawed we [Americans] can’t even see straight. I like the overall premise of the chapter and the ending, but there’s an even harder uppercut I need to swing. I felt like I was gingerly dancing around the point, even though I jumped straight into the lake.

Aside from that, there’s the flash fiction that I’ve become somewhat adept at writing. While I have practiced at it for a few months, it seems the most natural of all types of fiction to write. I do want to be a novelist. I love developing stories and characters and starting fresh in a new book. I don’t like sequels. I think that’s the author’s way of being lazy. If my work ever goes public, the powers-that-be would have to be very convincing for me to write a sequel to any of my non-existent books.

Although I’ve never mentioned it here, there is another novel idea I’ve shelved months ago. I’ve desperately tried to keep it away from the Young Adult genre, but in a late-night cabal of wannabe writers another has said “yeah, that has YA written all over it.” Damn it!

How Does My Writing Differ?

At this point in time, does any current writer have much difference? We’re all variations on a theme. Millennia of authors pouring out pages upon pages of stories have covered so much, it’s difficult not to be seen as a writer who came before. Is there really much anymore to differ? I suppose I could say I have a better knack for coming up with people’s names than I’ve seen with others writers, but that’s not much. I’d leave the identification of difference to the reader. I suppose that’s why they’d read my material? They’d know better than I would.

Why Do I Write What I Do?

Mostly because I don’t want my life to be a “series of beige incidents” as coined by Patton Oswalt. I want something to be here when I leave. I don’t want to wake up 85 and have nothing to show for myself, except an oxygen tank and tears. Hell, even if it’s mediocre prose that’s something. It’ll make Vonnegut happy.

Do you hear that Bukowski?! I am trying!

How Does My Writing Process Work?

I wouldn’t call it a “process.” Most people won’t understand how ironic that statement is, until they realize I’m a classically-trained accountant. I’ve dealt with creating processes for the better part of fifteen years, and I can’t even control a pet project of mine. How funny is that?

Some of the time, it starts with a trip to a bar or a later trip to a hash house. Waffle House is the best place to write at 3:00 in the morning. Why? It’s open, and the people aren’t intellectuals. Non-intellectuals make for great people watching, because they act out more often. It’s a funnier story when the drunk guy is singing to his penis in encouragement to urinate.

I keep a mole skin journal and a mechanical pencil in my car, Falcor. No, it’s not a sports car or anything flashy. It’s a Honda Accord. I can name my car whatever I damn well please. Over a glass of cheap red wine or “luxurious” cup of Arabica coffee, I scribble sentences. More often than not, they turn into stories. I’ve yet to figure out how that happens, but it does. So, I don’t argue with it much.  After I have a “starter,” as I like to call it, I take it home to be written in a WordPress post.

Recently, I’ve also been posting them in the writer’s prompt section of Reddit, but have found it less rewarding. The people on Reddit are of low caliber, and aren’t really as mature as they need to be to discuss writing. Often times, it seems like wasted effort.

——

This is where I would pass the writing duties of the blog hop to two other bloggers. Guess what? I’m not going to do that. I don’t believe in chain posting. Good night, Seattle. We love you!

Tuesday, February 25th, 2014

I happened to find this article from The Wire in my Facebook feed yesterday morning. The condensed version is Amtrak providing “residencies” to “writers” for “free.” As I’m lead to believe “free” is meant to be they don’t have a price tag yet, “writers” are to be determined by Amtrak, and “residencies” suggest spending a night in a sleeper car. What I gather is they’re still in the stages of determining if this will work out for them.

It all started when a New York City writer made a suggestion that found its way to the right people. Go figure. Once the test run was offered to a colleague of said writer, it made itself into print. Many involved in the writing community have expressed interest in the project for its “creative atmosphere.” I can agree. This combines two of my favorite activities: being in motion and writing stuff down on paper. I write on paper because I like to doodle, and edit, and tap my pencil on the pad and stick it behind my ears.

It made my heart ache for about two hours with flare ups each time I edited this entry.

Why would such a fun idea be so painful?

Granted it’s Amtrak, with its memories of crashes and other problems.

…but so what?

Airlines have their risks. Why the Hell does it hurt so much?

For the business conscious, it’s a matter of supply and demand. I could see the demand flying into outer space. The supply, on the other hand, would stay at a precious few. I did write my reflections on the amount of writers in this world, and how much of a mind trip it is. What would make me so special? Such things are declared to be a case-by-case basis.  I’m never good at case-by-case basis. I’ve known this since I was little.

I find myself often imagining the worst and hoping for the best even when history has given me many examples of outcome. I suppose I could work it around my job, but why even go that far? These things aren’t meant for me. The only time I get anywhere is by having a multitude concrete achievements to precede me. There isn’t anything magical about me.

Society is fickle, very fickle. Winning its favor was never my strong suit.

Monday, February 24th, 2014

I don’t like causing too much of a fuss out in public. For one, it’s much quicker to maneuver around low-quality humans than it is wasting time dealing with them. Second of all, this area is small, impressionable and judgmental. You get a reputation, and that’s not always a good thing. All of this is under the assumption you’re not from money. If you’re wealthy, you can do whatever you please. I’m sure many in America know that unspoken rule.

I decided to have a vegetarian burrito at the local Chipotle last night because guacamole is fantastic and I wanted to take a ride to a nearby town for some brainstorming. When I arrived, the line was at least twenty to twenty-five customers deep. It would be roughly a ten-minute wait. Not a problem. I’m patient.

As I approached the counter, the line workers started to run out of ingredients. The making of tacos, burritos and bowls ground to a screeching halt. Cooks were frustrated, the line crew was panic-stricken, and the sharks were starting to circle. By sharks, I mean customers.

As the replacements slowly came in, a person who appeared to be the shift manager said something to the cooks out of my earshot which garnered a tired, irritated response along the lines “I’m doing what I can.” It was at that point a middle-aged soccer mom got on her soap box. She explained how the in-fighting wasn’t helpful, her experience there wasn’t that great, she didn’t want to come back again, everyone was upset about what was going on, and she wanted to see the manager. I tolerated her whining up until the point she dragged me in on it.

Excuse me, lady? Speak for yourself. If I have a beef with these workers, I’ll let them know. I don’t need your help. Thanks, pay for your food and get lost. It would probably be a good thing for everyone involved if you didn’t come back ever again. Heck, I’ll frequent the place more to cover the loss in business. How ’bout them apples?

By the time I got up to the frazzled staff, I was boiling hot. It wasn’t from the workers; it was that spoiled little brat ahead of me. If I was too hungry to be decent in public, then it’s my own fault for not eating sooner. She could have made her own dinner and saved us all the headache of listening to her. These employees have to churn out meals for dozens of people a night. People like her. She needs to get real. Don’t try to catch people coming and going.

I addressed every employee as politely and friendly as I could. If there was an ingredient temporarily out of stock, I’d say “no worries” and find the next best substitute. The irked cook who sparked the woman’s diatribe went so far as to say “I like this guy!” I raised my finger and said “patience is a virtue” without so much as a hint of emotion. It was the truth. It didn’t need to be doctored up. He smiled. The tense atmosphere cleared out and the other customers who were acting like brats shriveled up like Shrinky Dinks. Serves ’em right. I’d also like to believe it got me a tad bit more guacamole than corporate suggests.

We’ve all been in frustrating and stressful situations before. We’re not perfect. We get mad. That’s normal. If you can’t cut people slack for being human, don’t even bother asking for any when you become such. It’s going to happen, too. I guarantee it.

Thursday, January 30th, 2014

The United States of America is the land of delusion, and take that as one guy’s opinion. There have been many noteworthy events and people from this country, but what’s often left in the background are the millions of average nobodies that aren’t recognized for doodley-squat. As we watch Hollywood, Wall Street, and Washington we see all that glitters is gold and the “might” of a handful of people achieving fame and fortune to insane levels. I’m sure many Americans get jealous of their celebrity status.

What if I told you they didn’t single-handedly do anything to achieve that? What if I told you that there are teams of nobodies poised to make them as great as they are? I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but why doesn’t it sink in? It’s the truth. The President of this country can’t do a blasted thing without his aides. The same goes for all Federal-level political figures. They’ve got faceless staffers to get them where they need to go, write their speeches, and coordinate their lives. Why is this lone-figure icon of Americans still touted as if it were real? It isn’t.

To be anywhere important, you will need the help of many and not just for “moral support.” You will also need to step on people to get close to the summit of the power pyramid. It’s the way power works. It’s not like there’s Power Cake and everyone gets a slice. No, there’s very little Power Cake and you have to steal it from some powerful people. They’re not going to like it! I can honestly say that I have no Power Cake. If I was supposed to, who’s eating it? That’s the way societies work: there will be a small number of people doing their best to hold on to as much as they can. I’ve not seen or heard of any nation that doesn’t have that happen in one form or another.

Back in the Eighties and Nineties, we were told as the youth of America to go to school and get a college education because we didn’t want to end up flipping burgers at McDonald’s for the rest of our lives. What a gigantic practical joke it was in 2009 when fast food and other food service jobs were the only jobs available. I spent thousands of dollars to put myself through college to bus dishes and be a grill jockey? Yeah, I’m not laughing. Even at that I had to take a local university over a more prestigious middle-tier school because I couldn’t afford the tuition.

What I really needed was a social coach to train me in how to deal with others. It’s no secret that people with connections get better jobs and status. All this talk of intellect being the key is just that, talk. I’m smart. There I said it without trying to scrub it with modesty. I’m, at the very least, above-average in intelligence. With the way America presented itself, you’d think I’d be Scrooge McDuck in a vault-like domicile. No. Why? Lack of pre-existing money and affluence. I wasn’t born into money. I had a wickedly difficult time making connections, learning to be outgoing, or rubbing elbows with influential people. I didn’t have those opportunities.

…but that was the plan for millions of Americans all along, wasn’t it? It’s to present the idea of wild success in such a way that makes Las Vegas envious. It completely ignores the country as a whole or what cooperation is needed to make the talent shine. Without the regular people, we wouldn’t have a nation at all.

Let’s put it this way: the reason you hear about rags-to-riches stories is they seldom happen. It’s the opposite of airline news. You don’t hear about the millions of people crashing and burning with the epilogue of buying a cottage in Averageville. My point is it’s not the end of the world if that happens. That doesn’t mean you won’t do great things. It doesn’t mean you have to hate your life. It simply means that you’ve broken the addiction sold to us by the powers that be.

“Shoot for the moon, even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.”

Yeah… I’d like to see you survive in space, pumpkin.

Saturday, January 4th, 2014

The snow… it laughs at me, and not in a playful “Frosty the Snowman” sort of way either. Yesterday was rather windy, and I came home to waist-high drifts against the garage. As much at the Zephyrus mounds looked aesthetically pleasing, it was not conducive to fitting the car into the bay. Parking the vehicle in a low spot, I spent a little over an hour and a half scraping tarmacadam. Amid huffs of cursing and puffs of making oaths, I’ve resolved to start saving money for a snow blower. There’s simply to much to shovel by hand, and it might jeopardize my health some day.

I haven’t much time to do anything other than work and sleep. This is slightly tragic as there was a story idea that I wanted to write about, but it was forgotten in the haze of taking calls and compiling numbers. Getting distracted seems to be the mind killer these days.

This isn’t the time to be exasperated though, as I have a whole year to develop something wonderful. Not to be too proud, but I’m finishing my year-end materials quicker than usual this year. Once the last of the governmental demands are fulfilled, I should get out somewhere. It can’t be expensive, but there has to be something interesting around to visit. It couldn’t hurt the creative process either.

Sometimes, events unblock memories that I’ve put away for a long time. This makes me debate whether I should make a post about the first (and only) time I went to a strip club. It left such an impression on me, that I never did go back.

The Lull

I must confess I expected to think of a subject to write about before this week ended. Even if it be a little gauche, consider this post “talking about the lull.” In American culture, that’s the type of subject you are to avoid. The reason isn’t exactly clear, but what is understood is conversation cannot abruptly end. That makes people very uncomfortable. Silence is not golden; it’s poison.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been known to freeze up before, without provocation too. The best way to describe it is there are words one moment, and they’re gone the next. I’m not sure where they ran off either. They may be in between the couch cushions for all I know. Needless to say, it can be embarrassing at the time.

Why, it happened to me yesterday at lunch. I couldn’t say things like “hello” or “good to see you again” to the person who I now realize was my mortgage officer. I hadn’t seen her in over a year though. She couldn’t remember my name either, but at least she could spit out greetings.

What wasn’t helping matters was the purchase of downloadable content (DLC) for Borderlands 2. I’m a sucker for a good video game and could lose an entire weekend, if I gave in to the desire. I had to cut myself off from World of Warcraft back in 2006, because it became unhealthy. Absolutely unproductive but certainly satisfying in the moment.

With this award-winning combination, I blew off my writing for much longer than I had planned. So, I did some flash fiction for fun.

—

“Have you ever been so angry, you couldn’t contain yourself?” Mick was drinking his usual black coffee while staring off into the distance. The sun was displaying an almost inviting feel with its offering of canary, honey, and sunflower. Fresh light wouldn’t help the fact that it was 5° C in the foothills of southwestern Ohio though.

“Oh, a few times I think.” Howard stuffed a bit of lemon poppy seed muffin into his mouth to prevent further disclosure.

“That’s something in life I can say is a regret of mine. When I was younger, behavior wasn’t as important as feeling better. People would constantly rub me the wrong way, and there was only so much I could tolerate. This would constantly upset my family. My father was always on me to cool off. He wasn’t sure where I got the hot head, but he knew it would lead to problems.”

Mick stopped and rubbed his face with his hand, almost to wipe away the pain of old feelings. He sighed and continued his story.

“I wouldn’t listen. Letting it out and blowing my top felt much better than the times I would hold it in. Holding it in felt like a pressure cooker, delaying the inevitable. It got so bad that I couldn’t go a day without screaming. I would walk in from work and just start shouting at the top of my lungs. I don’t know if anyone heard me. They could have been afraid to ask.”

Howard put his muffin down on the bench and folded his hands in his lap. “Would you have gone off on them?”

“That’s a good question,” Mick stared at his cup, “it’s probably a good thing I wasn’t given the opportunity.” His eyebrows picked up and he continued. “It wasn’t until my folks passed that I came to grips with myself. I was in the middle of a fit, because of the traffic getting home, when I grabbed the nearest object I could find and threw it against the wall. Only moments later did I realize it was my father’s urn. It was damaged beyond repair and I spent all night, crying, trying to save his ashes.”

A moment of silence passed between them like a leaf in the wind.

“After that, I came out here to get away from it all, put the past behind me, and start a new life. I’ve been working on being a better person since.”

Howard picked up his breakfast and began picking the edges. Before another bite was taken his curiosity got the better of him with “is it working?”

“Sometimes.” The coffee swirling in the cup splashed a little from vigor and an imaginary string bass played for pizzicato spots on his jeans.

“MmmMMmmph!” Mick’s eyes closed for a few seconds to avoid looking at it. “I just bought those last night.”

 © 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

Mixed Messages

There’s a lot of writing advice out there. If you’re the type of reader I am, you would have said, “no shit” after you read that sentence. However, it embarrassingly bears repeating as I still find many new writers (sometimes myself) unsure on how to move themselves with their words.  I’ve observed quite a few people, and it seems now I understand what happens.

People are a variation on a theme. We have similar experiences, traits, emotions, languages, and so on. On the other hand we have different interpretations based on those experiences, traits, emotions, languages, etc. Two people could experience the same event and come away with two different thoughts. These thoughts and reactions are not to be considered infinite, as there’s a reason emotions can be displayed on a wheel, there are only so many words in the English language and languages on the planet. There will be some common ground for everyone.

However, what I find when listening to authors is advice can contradict one another. For example, let’s take quote from Anaïs Nin:

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it.

Now let’s sidle that up against a commencement speech with Neil Gaiman:

These paths are very different. One is that of a quasi-Quaker speaking when the spirit moves her, and the other is the that of the child constantly writing but only when it isn’t work. How does that work? Simple, it doesn’t.

What needs to happen is that the writer needs to take charge of his or her life and respond to what resonates. That requires more thought on the part of the writer, as they are the ones who know themselves better than anyone else (or so I’d hope). It’s like going to the doctor and being diagnosed with an illness you know isn’t right. Why? Because you are feeling the symptoms first hand and are asking a secondary source to tell you what is wrong. Granted, there are some very good diagnostic doctors out there, but I only have access to the budget variety. No offense, doc, but your services aren’t sterling.

This whole notion of tailoring advice reminds me of a brilliant young writer I caught on here trying to decode Ernest Hemingway. In his own right, he has made valuable contributions to literature. That’s something I acknowledge, even if I think he’s a pompous windbag. He also spoke in what I call “red herring,” a dialect Hell bent on confusing you. This is one of the reasons I severely dislike Joyce, by the way. When speaking in riddles, please don’t feed the egos. I’m convinced if this young author took a step back and listened for advice not coming from big-name writers, her personal picture would have been much more clear.

I will shoot you right between the eyes and say I am neither a Nin, Gaiman, or Hemingway. I am the machine. I am the gun steel mecha-man that needs to crank and crank and crank and crank and work and work and work and work but evaluates what he’s cranking out and is only satisfied when it dazzles him. That’s my path to achievement, but it very well may never be yours. That’s for you to decide. It’s your rodeo, after all.

When Nature Calls, I Raise.

Hit me! No, that’s not right. What are we playing again? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m not much for gambling. In fact, I’m a terrible gambler. The only time I went to a casino was in Atlantic City six years ago and lost $100. My companions said it would be an excellent experience. Right. That money was sorely missed, as it could have gone to more hoagies at Wawa. It’s not a sophisticated meal, but I liked them. Stop laughing.

When I started this post, I thought the title was amusing. It still is, but doesn’t tie in well with the rest of the entry. Blow it. I’m keeping my title. So there.

I get ideas for stories at inconvenient times: upon waking up, eating a meal, but more often than not in the car. There was a case of waking up last Thursday, where I desperately tried to type out an idea on my computer while battling my recovering motor skills. I could feel the memory slip away with each stroke of the key. This was all very reminiscent of Guy Pearce’s character in Memento, where he’s desperately trying to write himself a note about a conversation with Carrie-Anne Moss. The dream got a little mangled in the transition.

As mentioned before, driving’s the most common time for my ideas. The fields of Ohio are perfect for long drives at night, which are a frequent hobby of mine. There’s an appreciation for the quiet and I’ve gotten used to the thick blanket of cover across the sky. It’s often cooler outside, and the air is quite enjoyable brushing up against my face. The lack of other motorists is also an undeniable perk.

A driver’s mental workload is reduced over time, when the route from point A to point B becomes a routine. This allows me to concoct wild thoughts, and that probably makes all you more nervous. It’s OK. I’m an excellent driver. Yeah, definitely a good driver. Definitely. Yeah.

The latest nugget of joy came at a different time of day, but was the same in principle. Without giving the meat of the story away, it started with the anxiety of crossing the Canadian-American border on my next trip. I’ll be visiting Niagara Falls for the first time in my life, and decided to party with the Canucks. During my commute, my mind began working off of this anxiety to create a rather interesting scenario. The thought struck me at my core, and that is important to me.

As luck would have it, I was able to get to my laptop and spill the beans on a Word document before the gossamer floated away via distractions. Writing for me is like making gold leaf. It starts with a lump of gold, or an idea I think very valuable, then I hammer it out into pages. After a while, it starts to look like a story.

Does anyone else run into this? Has anyone thought of a subject that strikes them so hard in the gut they simply must write it?