Minding my own business

I was sitting here, working on a story, minding my own business, when I glanced at the clock.

11:08 p.m.

And today’s post is still a figment of my imagination.

Or it was. Or, more accurately, they were.

The process never varies.

I spend the day writing, reading, laundering, driving, meeting, critiquing, shopping, cooking and whatever other –ing happens along. And all the while, ideas whirl inside my head: I’ll write about this–and this–and this–and every this comes bearing its own first line, flawlessly conceived, flawlessly phrased, flawlessly flawless.

But by the time I open the screen with the words Add New Post emblazoned across the top, I find creation vaporized, all my pretty chickens taken in one fell swoop.

O hell-kite.

All right, that’s not what happens. Not literally anyway. Except for the hell-kite part. It’s genuine.

What happens is that I forget. I don’t carry little index cards in my pocket, as Anne Lamott says I should, or a little notebook in my purse. I don’t stop to record my epiphanies. I keep on whirling.

And then it’s 11:08, or in the instant case, 11:52 p.m. and counting, and I’ve said I’ll post daily, so I have to post something, so I just catch the nearest way. And tonight this is it.