I wake up from a sound sleep with two things foremost on my mind. One, I have to go to the bathroom immediately because apparently part of the aging process is the shrinking of your bladder until it is approximately the size of a pea. Two, I have a brilliant idea for a column. I pull out the pad of paper in the drawer next to my bed because I know by now that if I don’t write it down, tomorrow I won’t remember it. And at 3 AM, this idea definitely seems to be the one that will win me the Pulitzer.
The next morning I wake up, replicate my immediate trip to the bathroom and then grab that paper with excitement over the fact that I already have the best idea ever for my column and so I won’t have to spend the weekend mindlessly staring at a blank screen while weeping softly. Only I can’t read most of my writing and what I can read doesn’t seem to make any sense. And in thinking back on what I think I was trying to write, the thought occurs that it was a pretty stupid idea in the first place.
Maybe I should just get rid of the paper and pen next to the bed and then I won’t even remember I ever had these ideas.