I sat there in that cramped seat, shifting my weight around, trying any position possible to find comfort. I don’t think airplane seats used to be this small, but every year I think they close in by another half inch. Either that, or my waist is expanding by that same measurement. We’ll go with the first. 

I had ideas running through my head. I knew exactly how this next chapter would start. All I needed was access to my laptop to memorialize them into my manuscript. But as is almost always the case nowadays, we sat there on that tarmac, that god forsaken tarmac, for over an hour. 

The ideas were still there, but my motivation was waning. Finally, with my bladder now bursting, we took off and sliced through the choppy turbulence of Denver weather in February. The seatbelt sign was still on, and showed no sign of extinguishing any time soon. The turbulence was too severe. But now at least I could write to occupy my thoughts. 

I leaned down underneath the seat in front of me to grab my backpack. I had to maneuver into the world’s most pretzeled position because, you know, cramped seats. As I was bending and reaching, twisting and turning, the seat in front of me struck me in the head. God dammit… a recliner. And not just a smidge. He went all…the…way…back. 

Not only did I just lose six inches of precious space in my economy seat, the angle was now such that my laptop wouldn’t fit onto my tray table. Perfect. Just perfect. 

I put my tray table back up, and sat my laptop, well, in my lap. I awkwardly typed in a wholly unnatural position for as long as my body could withstand the angle, i.e. 269 words. 

Physically and mentally exhausted, and now with no other option, I grabbed my phone, opened the notes app and began to type with two frenzied thumbs. These words that you are reading l now were written at 30,000 feet, by two thumbs, with a reclined seat in my chest, and nowhere to set my ginger ale. 

The life of writer shouldn’t be so tough…