As I write this I am lying down. There is a couch and I am lying on it. I have a fan aimed on me so that I do not become overly warm. This is a constant fear of mine.

For the last I don’t know how many days I have tried to write something down. I cannot say what it is I have been trying to write, but I’m certain it is something. I explained this to a friend and he laughed, saying Why would you want to write something down? This friend is a writer himself, and thus knows firsthand that one ought not to write something down unless absolutely forced to do so. I tried to explain to him that I was just certain that there was something that I needed to write down, and that if I were to just force myself to sit and write then I just knew that something would come out. Somehow. Until now, however, it has not been so simple as that.

The problem, perhaps, was that I had always approached writing as something that needed to be done while seated at a desk. This is not so. I am lying here on my couch, fan aimed at my overweight, overwrought body, and I am writing. It is marvelous. Perhaps, then, that is what it was I had wanted to write down: writing can be done while lying.