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.

What’s worse?

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.