I was still drawing a blank.

28 days of no new ideas.

I would sit locked in my study, my house staff were under strict orders to not unlock me from my room for five hours time.

At my point of greatest frustration, the ghost of Alexander Pushkin appeared in my study.

(We spoke in Russian but I will do my best to translate what we said to one another.)

I said, “Alexander, I am trolling for ideas but am finding no satisfaction.”

The ghost of Alexander Pushkin said, “The disservice you do to yourself is in the looking for a gem, when a plain stone can tell a much greater tale.”

I said, “But what of entertainment?”

The ghost of Alexander Pushkin said, “100 people sitting in one room. Each one a symphony to one’s self, but a cacophony to the one sitting next to them. An impossible amalgam to separate and satisfy. You are left with no choice but to speak with no regard.”

I leaned forward, pen in hand, to the paper on my desk. I became transfixed with the words that came pouring out of me.

When I was done, I handed what I wrote to the ghost of Alexander Pushkin. He read what I had written, tore it into shreds, said, “It’s the utmost of drivel” and disappeared.

I burst into tears. The tears fell from my face into a previously neglected potted plant. The plant transformed from an indistinct stick into a vibrant flowering rose.

I said, “At last, something of value.”

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