Writing, Squeezing Time

In what felt like a brief moment of subject clarity, I scribbled a whole six front and back pages on my small notebook during the train ride this morning, writing the very last words moments before the final bell rang and the doors closed, which would have sent me racing to Manhattan instead of pacing to my occupation in Hoboken. Writers live for those closing moments of a thought, pushing the pen faster as the mind revs for the finish, extending time, even if just briefly, through the pursuit of a beloved activity. The essay, my personal retrospective on Bill Bryson, will appear here.