Words come to me in fits and starts, an image here, a memory there. Rarely when it’s convenient. I’ve taken to keeping my Notes app open on my phone while I drive so I can dictate hands-free. Even then, I’m not sure I capture anything worth the capture. I throw down a line but have to focus on the driving—better to lose the thought, or be unable to finish it, than to have it be my last on God’s earth. I get home and have only a collection of disjointed notes, nothing I’ve yet been able to build into anything better.

Making matters worse, each thought, each micro-recording, interrupts the book or podcast I’m listening to. I can either focus or free associate, not both. This week, Leonard Cohen is my muse and victim. His The Flame has both captivated and inspired me, and I’ve disrespected it by pausing for dictation. It’s beautiful enough that I’ll track it down and read it in print, but still I feel I’m doing wrong by it/him.

It’s an imperfect situation, this driving while thinking. No one’s a winner, even though I’m alone in the game. I have to drive, and I can’t bear to give up the thinking. What’s a writer to do?