Inspiration came looking for me. But I was listening to the weather report. I was counting out my vitamins. I was leafing through the Daytimer catalog, wondering if I should order a new appointment book. Inspiration got tired of waiting.


I’m struggling with the essay. The elevator is waiting to carry me into the mine shaft, but I’m stalling. It’s dark down there, I protest, as if I’ve just discovered darkness.


Two weeks of work down the drain. I’m ready to strangle the man who claims he’s a writer: he’ll be dead, I’ll be in prison, and we’ll both be better off. Maybe I won’t even be convicted. Maybe the jury will see it was a mercy killing.