I’m writing this while on hold, waiting to talk to a human.
My train of thought could be interrupted at any moment.
It’s difficult to focus, to create when expecting an interruption.
The music is a distraction.
Every few minutes the music is -
Just like that…
It’s interrupted by a voice that tells me that my call is valuable.
Each time there is a change in the texture of the sound, my pulse quickens.
Each time I think it’s my turn, I’m ready to throw away this process of writing.
This version of the Foolsletter?
It’s essentially finished.
Yet still I wait.
I hope that by the time you’re reading this, I will no longer be on hold.
What are you waiting for?
What would happen if you didn’t keep yourself on hold?
Wouldn’t you rather be held?
I must say, it’s better to be held than on hold.