I often think of writers, sitting in some stone floored, house, overlooking beach or rushing river. A hot pot of coffee on the stove, old typewriter, black sitting on an old pine desk, next to lots of paper. Some of the paper has found its way to the floor, little scrunched up white balls, with black type on the top half. Paper ripped satisfyingly, out of the machine in its prime, almost part of the story, but falling short. The writers are always skinny, never have time to eat, usually unkempt, why bother to brush your hair when your up to your neck in the next big blockbuster. Time for taking a bath will come. For now the only urgency is to write, to get out of your head this tale that needs telling, this story that fills your every waking moment, twisting and turning in your mind, unsure of exactly where it is going. I want to be one of those writers…. But minus the view, the black typewriter and the balls of crumpled up paper on the floor. I love it, but it’s not nearly so satisfying when all you have to do is hit delete!