If you were wondering (and even if you were not), here’s what it means to be a writer. On a hot hot summer day:
heatherpa [1:42 PM]:
Are those barista boobs at the coffee shop really necessary?
Tony [1:42 PM]:
I am so getting coffee after work.
heatherpa [1:43 PM]:
A normal man (let’s leave off the ultra-cool fact that my wife will point out Epic Breasts for me to gaze at), would drive to the coffee shop, do his leering, and putter on home.
Noooooooo. Not I. What I did was go to the coffee shop and look around the parking lot, in which my mind, for reasons on its own, formulated a book. Indeed, I envisioned an epic book about the next American Civil War. Starting right there. Right in the very spot I was parked in.
Thus, my leering wasn’t terribly productive. I spent the entire week resisting the urge to put Bunny Trouble aside and work on this story. The desire faded to a controllable burn, akin to something between indigestion and a morning erection.
This happens to me every day.
Be careful what you wish for, the road to Hell is paved with creativity.