This is what it is like— every time.
A question will come to you— a question without an easy answer.
It will flit past your eyes like a large black moth.
But, you must catch it lightly— your own hands are too heavy for a new question.
Carefully now. Carefully.
Your new idea sits on a yellow scrap of paper in your pocket.
It burns. It glows.
You forget it is there for a day, maybe two, and the third day you wake up.
You know what you must do.
You buy a notebook from the corner store— a marbled composition notebook with saddle stitching.
You pay for your notebook with old change. The girl behind the counter makes a pretty little joke and you laugh.
She doesn’t know you are rowing farther and farther away from shore.
You laugh because you’re polite.
Your oars dip into the water. You pull with all your weight. Your idea is taking you far away.
This part, you will only remember two years from now.
You pull out that tiny yellow scrap of a question from your pocket. You wipe the lint from its face, and pin it to the wall.
You pull the notebook from your knapsack. You crack its spine to open it up to the story.
That’s what you’re doing, you know. You’re going to tell a story.
Things are moving quickly now.
A year later.
You look around. The notebook is filled with graffiti from your first idea.
The face of the …. Read on, Reader!