I write. I like to write. I write professionally. But I am not magic. Just because I can type 90 words-per-minute does not mean I can think a relevant, coherent 90 words-per-minute. How can I put this? I cannot poop rainbows. There’s a process behind my brilliance. Think A Beautiful Mind meets Weekend at Bernie’s. I have the metabolism and attention-span of a gnat. I require at least 148 minutes of coffee, cigarettes, pestering Samantha and trips to the bathroom for every 37 minutes of articulated gold. This, of course, is a gross exaggeration and I distribute my time both effectively and appropriately. Regardless, I’m good at what I do. But it takes a minute, dammit. I can’t just get thrown something important willy-nilly and fart impressive joy. I need a minute, dammit.
julie warshaw 