The mad rush, the furious clacking of keys, and you frantically trying to keep up with the rushing in your head. You have the right idea, and you know it. Right down to your fingertips. The excitement is electric as you dance over the keyboard, time slipping away in the rhythmic clicking. It is intoxicating, just knowing.
You have wrestled this monster for hours, days . . . time immemorial. The idea that just did not want to be born. And yet you pulled it from the air, twisted and demented, and negotiated its form into something beautiful. You feel exhaustion and exhilaration in equal measure.
You have found your flow. Your muse has taken up residence in your soul. You are writing at the speed of imagination. Sweating and smiling, you go on. Bathed in chills and beams of light, glorious innovation.
For just a few moments, stretched into eternity, there is no stopping you. The narrative is faster than you, stronger than you, and it will be written. The anxiety is pain; knowing is beautiful.
And then it all stops. Just as suddenly as the inspiration struck, it leaves your fingers, and you sit back in your chair. Motionless for a few minutes. But you slowly open your eyes and read what has been written.
You try to stay calm as you poke away at the inevitable typos and misspelled words. You can’t help the odd rephrase here or there. But as you read on, you start nodding your head. The hint of a smile starts creeping up the corners of your mouth. You barely blink as you sit there, grinning like an idiot.