Midnights, March: 16

I’d forgotten how good it feels to really work. To dig into all the little pockets of time I can rustle up, and steal time from other pockets that aren’t mine to use. For instance, poking a hand out of the shower to jot down a few lines is finding a little of my own time to devote to writing. In fact, I used to hang a waterproof notebook on the shower wall for just that purpose. But stopping to write a paragraph or two during a board meeting? That's thievery. That time doesn't belong to writing. Which makes me, at times, a li’l bandit. A Time Bandit.

Am I above, say, fumbling for a pen at a red light and scrawling something down on my arm? Of course not. You know me better than that by now. But I will feel slightly conflicted about it. So perhaps I’m not the most fearsome Time Bandit, but I think that makes me approachable. People like a little humanity in a thief. A bit of moral compunction to muddy the waters.

Anyway.

I've even missed the frustration when other responsibilities interrupt, and the satisfaction that there are enough words in me today to warrant interruption.