Working nights some months ago I inadvertently performed a miracle with a microwave oven.
I tossed a bagel-wrapped hotdog in and set the timer for ninety seconds. Eighty-seven impatient seconds later, I opened the door and saw nothing on the rotating tray.
Nothing at all.
No crinkly wrapper, no steaming tubular meat product.
I’d made a bagel dog disappear.
I stood a good two seconds holding the open door until it dawned on me that I’d opened the wrong microwave.
Maybe it was the late-night time warp, maybe it was the microwave radiation, maybe it was the anticipation of spicy sausage and poppy-seed, but when I opened Door Number Two and found my piping hot bagel dog, some cross-wired synapse of my brain fired and a loosed a series of thoughts from deep inside the midnight nowhere of my subconscious:
I want to write.
I want to write for real after years of talking about it and chickening out. To write for real after being afraid of either success or failure or simply of doing the work.
At the very, very least I want to fail at writing instead of failing to write.
As epiphanies go, it isn’t much, but the world being the way it is, I’ll take whatever clarity I can get, wherever, whenever, and however I can get it.
This experience led me to make the changes described in My Water Has Always Been Loneliness.