This is what happens. I’m making a cup of tea to sit down to write. Not sure what I’ll write. I’m in-between drafts. So I think I’ll write something short, something new. While I wait for the water to boil, I look out the kitchen window and note the spider graveyard that has accumulated between the window and the storm window. It’s a desolate little place, full of cobwebs and withered spider corpses, emptied egg sacks and dangling moth husks. I’ve been looking upon this grim scene for years now. Before I’m even aware of it, I’ve banged open the window with the heel of my hand, wrestled out the screen and the storm windows and set to work. Two hours later the window is immaculate and I have not a word written.