I did not wake up angry.

When I looked into the mirror – when I looked into my old eyes – there was no anger.

Sure. I did not sleep well. I did not sleep very long. A few hours, at most. I woke up thirsty. A dry-mouth sensation – an irritation – was there. It was the image of the machine, and the feel of the keys needing to be punched that got me up. The typewriter was waiting for me, but I was not annoyed. I looked forward to the work. It was dark/night, early morning.

Everyone in the home was asleep. It was nice, walking down the steps, the warmth of the living room welcoming me, my spot on the couch open and promising…

My typewriter was on the side table, to the left of my special, comfortable spot.

I turned on the television, chose a movie I would not pay attention to, and put the typer on my lap. And I knew – I knew something magical was about to happen. The music was forming and melting in my mind… something was happening. That feeling of knowing something was about to go good is so intoxicating… the story (whatever it may be) is there, waiting to be told and typed-up in fury and passion.

And it began.

The words shot out of my fingers. Sentences were slicing their way into being.

Music was playing somewhere in the background. Explosions and dialogue were going on somewhere in the other world… in the other world, dogs were wandering around her property; she was upstairs, and my mind was on the Word and the words sprouting up in front of me.

Then it was over.

A dreadful scolding pulled me from the work.

Something about an alarm, something about terrible music, about sleep, and terrible days of no sleep – not enough sleep – shattered the contract I had with my work…

… work!

It no longer feels that way. It’s as though the time I spend jerking-off and around and pounding away on the keyboards – with the pen – is an afterthought of doing nothing.

It can be interrupted.

It may not be essential, like sleep. But, it’s what I fucking do.