A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work
will die without putting a word on paper.
— E.B. White
If Goldilocks were a writer, she’d have starved.
As I sit down to write, I’m surrounded by more noise than air.
People stampeding out of the office for lunch and walking with gusto to their chosen eateries.
One gentleman’s footstep is as disproportionate to his physique as an elephant stomp is to an army ant. Seriously, my monitor shakes every time he walks by. Crazy-making? Oh. Yeah.
The offices below are undergoing widespread renovation, and I’m pretty sure that the offices upstairs are holding Celtic dance auditions. And the people who are auditioning suck at their craft.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was all a cosmic scheme to keep me from writing.
But I do know better. In fact, I know this fundamental truth. Continue reading