He writes every day.
Some days, someone asks him a question, "How is the writing going?"
He thinks about all the crazy writers out there, who scribble on old napkins or in the library with notebooks. Rooms, cold rooms, over-heated rooms, dark hotel rooms. He thinks about drunk writers in flop-houses and dive-bars, or even a nice bar on the Sunset Strip -- but never with much money. Some bars have a fishtank in them, where you can watch metallic blue and silver fish swimming around decorative multi-colored coral. He thinks about all the writers who never get asked this question. Cold big cities. Alleys. One way streets. Blank sidewalks. He thinks about writers who write, and nobody knows or cares if they write. He gets grateful.
"The writing is going good." he says. "Thank you for asking."