The bus jerks to a halt at almost every stop on its way to the subway station, ruining not just the prose that I’m working on but the spell under which I’m writing. Real life intrudes every 400 feet or so as I write while I commute.
It’s a two hour commute each way to and from work every day, altogether a four hour window of opportunity in which to collaborate with my muse as to the content of my rough (very rough) draft. A writer can’t be too choosy as to when and where to drop the seeds of their creativity, if and when the opportunity arises it should be seized and, as with the poor dumb rube throwing his money away at the fixed carnival game of chance, taken advantage of.
And so it is that I carry my unwieldy papers (no laptop for me!) onto the bus ride to the subway station, balancing the entire lot on my lap and praying that I do not spill my morning coffee onto the whole shebang! I write and I write, pausing only for the occasional sip of java or to disembark before settling again onto the next leg of my commuting/writing journey, taking pains to avoid the angry glares of the seniors or pregnant women who would most assuredly take my seat and thus profoundly disturb the chemical and visceral churning out of words in which I am deeply and wholly involved.
And when I finally reach my destination, I pack my words and worlds away and proceed humbly to my real world source of salary and benefits, grateful that I have a good job and yet resentful that it would so rudely intrude upon the kinetic interaction between myself and my sometimes elusive muse.
The next eight hours pass as they always do, a worker bee-like existence, performing required duties by rote until the workday ends and brings me back to my commute, my trains, my bus, my writing.