It's cold as a witch's teat in New York this morning.
Actually, that's not quite true.
The temperature is in the low 30s. But compared to yesterday's anomalous 60-degree weather, this morning was blustery and ear-reddening. Perhaps especially so on 11th Avenue, where the wind comes larruping down the asphalt expanse as it does off the plains of North Dakota. Or some other place I've never been.
I got to my desk a trifle later than usual--I had walked in from 66th and Central Park West. An attempt to get some exercise--a little anyway--before the day, and my life, get away from me.
I was surprised when I walked in.
Stephanie was there. Already avidly clacketying on her keyboard.
Tom was, too, doing the same.
I don't know what it is about writers. Even writers in advertising.
We need to get in and do our thing.
Block out a script. Or make some sense of a brief.
Of course I'm not saying art directors don't do the same thing, or don't come in early, and as a rule they seem to stay later than everyone else.
But when it's early morning, and the frost is still on the pumpkin, it's writer-town.
What's funny about our writer's fraternity is that it's hard to find a truly gregarious writer. We know why we're here, so we leave each other alone to do it.
Of all the moments of the day, it's these moments I like most.
When it's as quiet as a morgue.
But you can almost hear writers thinking.