on the crest of a wave, it's like magic
After a morning filled with discussions of how 10:30 Is Not The New 9:00 and You Are Not Our (redacted) Service [anymore], I was ready for a nice quiet afternoon of data entry, filing and general straightening out of my cubicle.
I had flirted with the idea of reworking/writing a new chapter of a story I started, oh, slightly over two years ago while driving to work this morning. However, lunch was short (as always), and I really didn't have any ideas at the time anyway. So I was only slightly shocked when a line pounced on me while I was walking through the office:
Would you prefer if I shot them off, Sir?
I stopped dead in my tracks. And figured out where I want at least this chapter to go.
I could hear my muse chuckling oh-so-quietly from the next cubicle. 'bout time he showed up.
I had flirted with the idea of reworking/writing a new chapter of a story I started, oh, slightly over two years ago while driving to work this morning. However, lunch was short (as always), and I really didn't have any ideas at the time anyway. So I was only slightly shocked when a line pounced on me while I was walking through the office:
Would you prefer if I shot them off, Sir?
I stopped dead in my tracks. And figured out where I want at least this chapter to go.
I could hear my muse chuckling oh-so-quietly from the next cubicle. 'bout time he showed up.