Ralph grabbed a piece of parchment and rolled it until it lay as clean as snow under the yellowed keys. With his glasses set firmly on his nose, and his sweater piled in a heap across his shoulders, he focused his eyes on the blank page before him. One minute passed, then two, then an hour, then three, until the room grew dark with the setting of the sun.
Ralph knew that an idea would come to him, if not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then next week. It was on the edge of his consciousness and just needed some nurturing. "Time to grow," the book on writing had said. "Yes, time to grow," repeated Ralph, realizing that it was 7:00 p.m. and he still hadn't eaten lunch. He pushed himself away from the dusty typewriter and clomped toward the kitchen. "Tuna fish or pastrami on rye?," he asked his cat, who had decided to join the party now that something interesting was happening.