David never knew when the call for the typing

David never knew when the call for the typing would begin, but he always felt the pull even if he was home or not. When a ribbon of thought would catch his attention in that way

he was gone. he'd lock himself in the laundry room with a a gigantic typewriter strapped to a school desk. He'd bang out a flash flood of stream of consciousness writing until

he couldn't remember where he was anymore. He looked at the clock and didn't know if it was day or night or which day of the week. He was hungry, so he decided to grab a bite and

sat at the diner counter. He didn't even remember walking through the door. It was like he had always been here. He sipped his coffee and looked at the Menu. It was blank.

He glanced at his mug. No advertising slogan pushing this cozy diner. His napkin also had no doodles. He pondered this. Why? He even had a pen in his pocket

yanked a piece off & doodled a dandy idea for a movie about a screenwriter who writes a script about a down-and-out Broadway sing-and-dance man who plays the president. My boss was

a big show tunes fan, so I knew it would be a hit at the office. But my primary concern about writing the script at work was

not being able to openly acknowledge all of the voices inside my head, all of whom guided my script writing. They got cranky if I didn't give credit where credit was due.I ended up

unveiling an expected plot, hoping that it would make the voices stop. They ceased for a while, only to come with full force. There was no escape: I had been dominated, consumed.