Like many writers, I keep a journal beside my bed - not that I actually write anything in mine, of course, but I do keep one all the same. There is a pen, too, although I doubt that any ink runs through its veins. These valuable and venerable tools have been spurned in favor of the smart-phone notepad and its stylus. After all, those digital words are actually readable by their own author; whereas that smudgy, wayward scribble on lined paper, well, just take a look for yourself: Is that blot an f or an s? Does that scrawl say burritos or buttocks? Who the Hell knows? Not I. And it's my handwriting.
Alas, inspiration most often strikes me when I'm taking a shower, a location perhaps unequaled for inconvenience when it comes to writing ideas down quickly, unless you're especially skilled at forming letters in soap scum with the business end of a loofah. And so my most fertile ideas just disappear down the drain, hitching a ride with all those emancipated hairs from my balding head. Gurgle, gurgle, there goes the plot of a best-selling novel and the outline of blockbuster screenplay. Oh well, at least I remembered to wash behind my ears.
Of course, good writing is, like Thomas Edison's famous formula for success, mostly the reward of perspiration rather than inspiration. So I suppose the preceding paragraphs are a scant excuse for lack of quality or quantity on my part. After all, I am not the sort of diligent, industrious writer who drips with sweat and elbow grease after an eight hour shift at his desk. But then I'm cursed with the existential concerns and tedious labors of a proper job, squatting on my brain like a killjoy gang of lugubrious toads and obstructing progress on more interesting and amusing projects.
This blog, for instance. True, it is perhaps the world's least informative coronary artery disease resource, and rarely makes a serious point that isn't blunted by some degree of facetiousness, but at least it's written with some degree of verve whenever I actually find the time to record my experiences, even if they are a shamefully thin gruel compared to the soul-searching tales of triumph over adversity recollected by other bypass "survivors".