It pays to write

On a bench

He questioned his mind more, wondering if some outside force was the trouble. He needed to remind himself that he wrote quite prolifically and that this was merely a spell, perhaps a pause that he needed. It wasn't about being published, either. The writers' club could use anything and compensate for it.

There must be clubs across the city for the different professions, he thought. His limits couldn't be the result of ineptitude. Certainly a narrative takes shape and by some law of physics propels itself, even taking the writer in tow. The urgency with which it needed to be told was a critical factor.

And so a narrative must have been brewing within him. He wrote regularly, his poem being the latest accomplishment and his pause notwithstanding.

He hadn't quite yet arrived at an understanding of what made writing so lucrative. Perhaps it was the way experiences were shared, in writing.

He fiddled with some leaves that had fallen next to him onto the bench. Sure, the park was nice. The writers' club was important. But it was time to stop thinking so much about his own circumstances. He took a walk into the city.

The city was known for housing many tourists. They came from many parts and stayed usually a week or so. This city found it lawful and more than ideal to incentivize visitors to stay on a week-by-week basis, evening out inflows and outflows during the busy commuter hours somewhat.

It was like adding several thousand itinerants to the workforce and cycling them weekly. It kept a fresh air in the city. It wouldn't get stale and you wouldn't see the same faces.

Our writer toured some of the places that visitors liked to visit. Museums, landmarks, and historic sites, over the course of several days. It was revelatory.

Revelatory because he had never really seen these places through the eyes of a writer. Now, after having spent time at the writers' club, he started to get the idea of a visiting a place and generating written content to match the experience.

After a rather cursory sweep through the city sights, he returned, days later now, to the writers' club. People were even milling about the environs at this time. He almost interacted with one. Writing had turned him somewhat less conversant, compared to other times.