I like to call it writer's fit. I'm sure I'm not the only one. While working on some mundane task, you suddenly get swept away. Everything fits together logically in your mind, and you know that it will fit on paper too. The biggest problem with writer's fit is the unpredictable nature. You might hold on to it for an hour, or you might have it for thirty seconds. By the time you can get to something that can record your incredible thought processes and logical conundrums, your Beauty for Dummies handbook has faded into the dark recesses of your mind. Tonight I thought I snatched a bit of the writer's fit, about itself (Naturally.) Holding on to it is like being that shipwreck survivor with a handful of cotton that he has painfully lit on fire by rubbing two sticks together. (Yes, it is possible, but it takes just about all day and leaves you with massive lactic acid buildup and blisters for hands. {At least, that is what I hear}) You hold on to it gingerly, knowing that it can go out any moment, and leaving you with nothing but a dark island and a burnt hand. And of course, writer's fit never occurs when staring at blogger. It's always when you're doing something different, or uninteresting, dishes, wiping tables, jogging, or simply taking a walk and daydreaming.
It's often doing nothing that seems to get the most meaningful things done anyway, oddly.
I'll let Chesterton close, seeing as I am suspicious that he was a master of taking advantage of writer's fit.
"(Poetry) is done by doing nothing."
-The Mirror of the Magistrate
