There wasn’t a part of my morning that wasn’t bombarded by a part of my professional life. The bombs came through email, out from twitter, along from Facebook, and standing along my my desk – all in multiple forms.
The phone even rang. That’s never good.
I had to cajole, negotiate, insist, persist, pistol whip, pray-for-rain, and hope-for-the-best but in the end it all trickled into a quiet evening in an alley cafe within the heart of town.
I started to write though, no, not on paper. The book of blues prequel is starting to shape up in my head. It’s playing like a three minute song. And though I often shun 3-minute audio retail, the fact it’s as quick and as fluid as it is surprises me. Frightens me. How delightful.
The iPad I’m testing was sitting in my car across the street. I couldn’t tell you what didn’t posses me to pick it up, bring it back over and start writing with it. The evening was too beautiful to waste an opportune moment.
Then again, the evening was too beautiful to waste staring at a screen.
My buddy Lacy wrote on Facebook today about the idea writing a book about how people who don’t sleep in on Saturdays are going to be more successful. Somehow the string parlayed into the idea where the work would instead be a chronicled adventure of life in Broad Ripple between 3am and 6am on the weekends. Tales from the BR, or something. We’d have to take a camera, or few, gonzo up a few notes and look at the wreckage after we wake up later that afternoon – cause that’s when it’ll all hurt the most (the song is still in my head).
I’ve never understood how people could write in such beautiful environments. I sit there, trying to soak it all in till I’m satiated and saturated, but I never get my fill of such moments. I usually can only write about such times when I’m in a confined space, dreaming of those beautiful moments. Only then can I write accordingly.
Am I the only one who does that?
PS – Lacy, I’m ready when you are. That sounds like way to much fun.
(photo credit: June 1777 via Flickr)