A poet friend of mine and I had lots of work to do. I’d cleared the table of books and papers and I could hear the coffee machine making its noises in the kitchen. One of us would speak while the other would write. I think that was our initial plan. Plans remained uncertain in these kinds of writing experiments. Was it a psychological writing experiment? The one writing would speak too. The room would hear speaking and writing voices. We’d decided beforehand on a goal for whatever might happen during this hour of experimentation: we would let meaning find us. I knew the best words would come from my poet friend. She was an artist with words. I depended on words to help me think intuitively and write sentences, and I felt naked without a book within reach of my writing pad. No book would rescue me during the next hour, unless I left the room and ran to the bookshelves. Why did part of me always need to be rescued? Maybe the words I was about to speak or write for sixty minutes would help me think about this question. I heard a knock on the door. It was time for us to be creative together.