The Garret

2:43 yesterday afternoon. I had tired of chopping wood and had been filling out job applications ever since Judge Judy made a deadbeat pay the maximum of $5,000 to an ex-girlfriend for bills he ran up. "I didn't think she'd mind" was his defense. I couldn't get warm. I was waiting for today's snow, which never came. I looked around my office and the junk piling up. "I look like a poor starving writer living in a garret," I said to Sydney, my cockateil. He bit me sensing another pity party afternoon.

Lightning struck inside my brain. The muse landed with a thud, and the basis of a story hit with a beginning, middle, and ending!

Yeah, yeah! I know. I'm struck with inspiration twenty times a day, but this...well, it was different. It had the smell of novel in the afterglow. I wrote down what I could, and this morning I looked at my notes. IT WAS STILL THERE. Mark this day. Six months from now, you'll hear more about "The Garret" (tentative title).