15 minutes

I've got 15 minutes to kill. That's not enough time to get any work done on the story I'm writing, or actually it is, because even a minute or two is enough to get something done, to change a word for a better word, or cross out a crappy sentence or a sentence that doesn't need to be there, or realize that the story actually begins midway through page two and then delete the first page in a fit of sadism, or masochism, and then perhaps regret it later, or murder an adverb, or cross out the word little a few times, since I write it like a nervous tic, or do any number of other things, because 15 minutes is a long time, and if you add all those 15 minute sessions together you get a few days, or weeks, a few more weeks of writing or working on your writing, work you wouldn't have done otherwise, because you would have been too busy looking at your facebook page, or reading The Guardian, or doing god knows what with your time, like blogging, your spine popping between your shoulder blades, your eyes burning, your stomach churning, the sun shining on the plants in the window as the leaves push themselves out of the trees in the courtyard. Or whatever that place is called. That's 12 minutes gone. Time to make lunch. I want to go to Ireland this summer.