They are fleeting moments. The planets are aligned, the house is quiet, my fingers fly, and I channel a brilliance that transcends what meager skills I possess. I am convinced I am a genius. The great American novel is within my grasp. Eat your heart out J. K. Rowling, move over Hemmingway. F. Scott, please be a dear and fetch me a glass of champagne. Tickled pink, full of myself, I shut my laptop and pour giddy little me into bed where I dream of red carpets and accolades. Oh, my, is that a Nobel Prize?
The next morning, I float on a silver-lined cloud to my desk, smiling as I open the file and read.
“Wait, what is this?”
Disbelief morphs into frantic desperation as I check time stamps and backups, searching in vain for the scintillating words written mere hours ago.
“Who wrote this crap?” I scream.
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