Well, I was supposed to go see a movie tonight: The Terminal. What if that movie had been named The Airport? Ah, the power of words. Anyway, I am sick and am not going. I think I have a summer cold. I am sneezing, and my voice sounds like Dianna Krall. Normally, I would love to sound like her, but it hurts. So no movie.

My day was full of scheduling depositions, cancelling depositions, and talking about depositions (I work for a law firm). The only interesting point of my day was talking to my mom on the phone after work.

"I have something that might interest you," she said. Usually, to my mother, something that may interest me is a tidbit of gossip that doesn't in any way interest me. Or, she is telling me about the newest engagement in my tiny hometown. But this time - Mom, you hit it on the head.

My grandmother gave my parents an old typewriter (I think she said a Rembrandt. Anyway, my parents have no use for it and asked if I wanted it. I am so excited. It has its old, original leather case and is in perfect working order. I feel like a real writer. I can't wait to pick it up and begin making stories. That's the problem with my writing. For months, I have been writing diligently, but I haven't been making anything.

My photography professor says all the time that he makes pictures. I thought it was odd at first, but it really is the only way to look at art. If you are just taking pictures, or writing, for that matter, you aren't creating. So now, with new typewriter in tow, I am going to make stories. I'm excited.

But now, 9:30 p.m. at night, (mark it, I think it's a first), I am going to bed to starve my cold. Or, is it feed a cold? I can never remember. Tonight I will just have to dream the stories.