I’ve never written a story before. I’ve written articles and speeches.  I’ve tried poems. I’ve even tried rap.  I’ve never written a story before.

Well, here I am, finally trying it.  It’s not that bad, maybe not as exciting as I would like, but it’s peaceful.  I don’t feel as glorious as I expected.  I envisioned feeling like Twain slashing through racism, like Dostoevsky dictating the depths of his soul, like Hitchens in a drunken brawl with god, like Thoreau alone in his cabin, maybe even like Paul inspired by God.  Yet here I sit, on my bed, my thumbs slapping words down on my iPhone, a collection of Bukowski poems in my lap.

I open a window.  They say that the answer is blowing in the wind, so I want to be ready when it comes.

It’s 4:28 in the afternoon.  Inspiration’s running late; I told him to be here at 4.  You just can’t trust the muses.  I stare at this screen like the Tiananmen Square Protester stared at the tanks in 1989.  A heroic act of rebellion, no doubt, but he eventually was shuffled out of the way.  Maybe I should shuffle away from the page awhile, quit searching for the words.  I’ll let the words search for me.

It’s now 9:59pm.  The words still haven’t found me.  I would like to pay homage to Christopher Hitchens, whose death last night inspired me to try to write.  It’s now 10:01pm.  Maybe the words will find me eventually.

11:43pm.  I’ve never written a story before.

And I probably never will.