The cocktail napkins on the bar were a discouraging, stylish black. Pen in hand, I asked the bartender if he could scrounge up a scrap of paper, something more inviting to the ink. He didn’t jive – smiled and offered nothing. I sat a while contemplating skin – wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made fast notes on a forearm – but knew there was a tide coming in, needing serious shore. It took a few minutes to remember: the restroom was well-stocked in neatly folded, off-white towelettes – perfect texture for a ballpoint to roll over.
Need addressed. Resources at the ready.
Prolific tangents called ink out into open air while the ice melted in a disappearing pour of good tequila. It feels good to be in the process, driven to turn thoughts into words, words into scenes, scenes into worlds.
Nod if you’ve been there. When the muse says, “Work,” you say, “Yes.”