The writer, quite suddenly swarmed by words, fine worthy words, is making her way through rush hour traffic. There is no pen, no paper, though even if there were, she would be hard-pressed to write quickly enough to keep up with the flurry of words flooding her consciousness, swelling her spirit with creativity. Elated by the burst of brilliance, she tells herself she will remember. This time, she will. She must.
She arrives at her destination, a Korean student who still has difficulty with English words. Before she leaves him though, he will find just the right ones to ask his teacher the question on his mind. Where do you find your joy? He says. She searches her tired mind and finds a joy to share with the boy. But he is not quite pleased with her answer. I think, he says, you find your joy when you write. The teacher is filled with a third joy upon hearing his words.
The writer is anxious to write, and upon arriving home, she begins to search the corners of her mind for those brilliant little nuggets that took hold of her in traffic. But they are not there. They have scattered through every crevice of her being, refusing to stay put. They have lived and left. Again. She tells herself to be pleased that they once were and secretly wishing for their return, the writer puts down her pen.