Journal - W08E3 ("I" version)

It was dark and silent outside. Just before dawn, I was hastily finishing my writing for the deadline within two hours. I pulled out my brain and squeezed the rest of my inspiration on the Logitech soundless keyboard, but nothing came out. Not a single drop of wit. I then minimized the window on the screen, double-clicked the PC strategy game and started a half-hour rest. Running out of ideas is inevitable in my reporting career. Even worse, I always manage to start moving my fingers on the keyboard – using pen to actually write on paper is not an option anymore nowadays – at the last moment. To be precise, if I have three article for one thousand words each to be finished before nine a.m. tomorrow, I probably will start writing at no earlier than ten o’clock tonight.

I learned this bad habit from my father who, since I have had memory, always sits on the swivel chair and stays up all night in front of the old 486 computer with his editor calling continuously to press for his arduously produced articles. However, comparing these two men, a professor who writes economical and political commentaries for newspapers and magazines readily, and a brat who can only do prose and junks, nothing is shown in common but the fact that they both write.

After a happy short break, I, the brat who had just blamed my procrastination to his dear dad, enlarged the unfinished document back on my screen. While I rhythmically beat the keyboard as piano keys with new ideas in mind, the sun rose from the windowsill. Day time came with singing birds and rapidly increased temperature. It was going to be another long summer day. But to me, the day ended at nine in the morning, when I finished my articles and fell on my bed for a good day sleep.