Mike Brick

That Reporter--or, as he called himself, T.R.--sat at his desk and thought about words. It was a Wednesday in New York, and an airplane had hit an apartment building. Had what? Hit it? A building? Yes, it had. Debris had fallen from the sky. Debris lay scattered in the street. Debris and facts.

Who would gather the facts? Other reporters would gather the facts. They were out there, in the rain, the other reporters. Rain was falling, like the debris had fallen. Rain was falling on the other reporters.

But T.R. was thinking about words. Words were his tools, because he was a writer. Perhaps he should start calling himself "T.W." He was not some grunt-working fact-gatherer. T.R. was an interpreter. Other people could gather the bricks and mix the mortar and lay the bricks and plaster the walls and make sure the building stood up and install the plumbing. T.R. was the architect. That was a metaphor. T.R. knew that was a metaphor; that was the sort of thing that a writer would know.

T.R. looked at his screen.  read more »