I guess you'd call it a blog

I had this client when I was self-employed. Greek guy. Unbelievably successful - revered, even - but also intense and dramatic. But here’s the thing: I never did the work. Sly and devilish, I’d get AI to do the work for me, whatever it was. Eventually, I f*cked up and got caught. His anger was righteous, like a bolt of lightning. But he was cunning too. The fury contained within the gathering clouds. He invited me round for a drink and, safe in my intellectual superiority, I accepted. Well bugger that for a laugh. He led me to the basement, where his deranged brother lived. Weird guy. Loved sticks. Anyway the brother, he was a wild one. He sat me down at his computer - ostensibly for help with a copy problem - and when I was distracted, cuffed me to the seat. He said I could leave as soon as I’d finished writing the copy. It was one landing page. So, freaked as I was, I knew it wouldn’t last long. But these Greeks - they’re sly too. I sent the first version. Reply: sharp...

The lights dim and the chorus of excited chatter is extinguished. I nestle into my chair. Rapt. A character strolls on stage and I burst into a wide, excited smile. Before a word is spoken, or a note is played, I’m humming with anticipation. … The cast bows and I’m on my feet, smacking my palms together and cheering until I’m hoarse. I feel moved. More, I feel something deep in my chest - a powerful, pulsating energy.  I feel  inspired . … It was the second time I’d seen Hamilton. And as I stood waiting for the bus home — gripping  cash because my phone was dead — I got thinking. About how I felt all the same sensations last time, too. Pride, shock, cringe, joy and sadness. The rest.  I thought about how, across all art, there are very few things that bring me that intense, lingering inspiration. A great musical theatre performance is certainly one of them. I considered some others: The novel I tear open at first light, on the bus, at lunch, and late at ...