An Answer to the Question, “Where Do You Get Your Ideas?”

On deadline, my rule is no internet until the work’s done. Sometimes I even observe this rule. This morning I took my second cup of coffee to my study and resisted email, a gateway drug for Facebook. I needed to revise two flash fictions I’m translating to meet a journal’s due date, a deadline circling ever closer above me like a condor.

It was one of those rare mornings when work went swimmingly. Looking out at a splendid blue sky, I promised myself a walk, imperfectly solved several thorny translation puzzles, input the results, composed a note in Spanish to Agustín, the author, and sent him the drafts. In doing so, I couldn’t help but notice I had 34 messages waiting, nearly half of them from Facebook. It was after ten, but I had another task before break: finding a topic for my next blog. I clicked through my idea list for five minutes. Nothing inspired me. Showing my usual dedication to my craft, I promptly gave up and indulged in twenty-five sinful, fattening minutes of email and Facebook.

Yesterday evening, Sara described a Bali bike ride past cows and palm trees, family temples and black rock cliffs overlooking the ocean. Rain overtook her, she said, so torrential it was like riding underwater.

Sandy posted last night, describing a dinner of roast pork, sauerkraut and dumplings with Mile High Czech Lodge 432 at a restaurant in Denver. Dessert, of course, was apple strudel.

At one a.m. this morning, Amy concluded her last night at the Sundance Film Festival by seeing the Grand Jury Prize winner, “Fruitvale,” and reported that it was the best festival she’d seen in all her years of taking students there.

Two hours ago, Agustín, exhausted, posted a shot of the bright and cozy living room of his new Geneva flat, having just finished moving in.

Under an hour ago, Patti posted a frigid photo of thick snowfall in Gunnison, less than four hours from here and three thousand feet higher. I looked again at our clear blue sky and remembered that walk I promised myself.

In the 20 hours since I’d been on Facebook, any number of people changed their profile pictures, Shiloh declared she’d like to eat an entire chocolate cake, Sophia posted a story she wrote containing an exploding pony, and Emily wondered how long it takes for printer nozzles to clean. Brendan, ever helpful, commented that “nozzle” is a “pretty great word” and he may use it for his first child’s middle name. Various others of my former DSA students continued to follow their muses; Brett raising money in New York for a developmental reading of his musical, Jerod or Charlie always playing somewhere, Alexandra still dancing, Mica still singing, Mallory still costume designing, actors acting, writers writing, painters painting. It does their old teacher’s heart good.

The Democrats tirelessly continue to want my donation and in Florida my niece Kristen posted photos of her baby boy with the finger he injured yesterday neatly bandaged. Glad to know that turned out O.K. Daughter Snow put up a shot of the aggressively decadent cake her son—more importantly, my grandson—Shane made for her birthday. My neighbor announced an hour ago that there’s a mouse in the house and the hunt is on. By the time I saw it, nine people had already posted sage advice. “Please,” I wrote anxiously, “don’t chase it over here.”

But that walk. Outside, it was 58 degrees. I unzipped my jacket, hiked upslope and verified that, indeed, thick cloudbanks hung over the Front Range, the kind that mean business. By then, Gunnison must have been inches in white. Stitched to mountain peaks, the clouds looked stationary, but looks are deceiving. Down here in Denver, the sky was still blue, the sun warm on my face. I walked further than I’d planned, circled back to KJ’s for coffee and scones to take home and share with Phil. On his own deadline when I left, getting a newsletter to the printer, he sat at his computer with that “don’t even try to interrupt me” vibe emanating from his hunched back.

By 12:30 clouds made it over the mountains and wind picked up out of the north. By two someone in Arvada posted: “I smell Greeley.” And someone else: “Yep, snow’s a-coming.” By three I also could smell feedlots, but suspected it was Stock Show yards, also north of here, but nearer to hand. Our 60-degree morning dove to freezing and at four, it began to snow. That made it midnight in Geneva. Agustín and Viki have been long asleep, went to bed early after their day of moving from Hungary, but before they did, Agustín sent me a fast email about the flash fiction: los veo mañana. I’ll look at them tomorrow.

That’s plenty soon enough, because while I was walking in the spring morning that preceded this winter night, I got the germ of an idea for my next blog.