My Writing Will Never Be Perfect
It will never be the perfect time to write. There will never be a perfect topic. Grammar will always change, therefore changing the meaning, your meaning. The coffee will never be as perfect as an early morning cup in the woods or a late night coastal cup. It will never be right.
Then it happens. Your driving down the interstate, your tank half full and your car smells like old French fries and somewhat expensive cologne. The idea pops in your head like a summer time bubble. It’s perfect, you’re going 70 miles per hour and you don’t have a pen. You recite the idea over and over, it’s almost like a song.
You turn, the blinking and tinking patter of your signal throws you off. The idea was fleeting. Brief but exhilarating. Your mind starts racing, grasping at any bitty detail you can grab and jot down. You have crumbs, bits and pieces.
You pull into the perfectly even lines, shoving your now quarter tank car into park. You pulled in fast, your body parks with the car.
Where is your book, the vessel of ideas you spit into. Front console, your pen wedged in between pages of crumbs. Find a page, any page, blank or filled, as long as there is space. Space for the crumbs I am grasping.
There it is, a quarter inch space just enough to throw down the words. Your crumbs.
The cap of your pen launches on to the dash, no matter. That is for another time. You only captured three words.
My own story
