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Conclusion: A bar is entertaining. In case you didn’t know. 
But I’m digressing again from the beginning of my improvised morning story because I want to write about a completely different bar: the Thinkable Bar.

Oh yes, it’s not only thinkable, but also entirely feasible.
Ever since I learned to write—which feels like a hundred years ago, but was actually 65 years ago—I kept hearing the term “writer’s block.” Who on earth would block a writer from writing? Oh yes, it happens in dictatorial regimes. But voluntary, non-state-imposed blocking of writing? Unthinkable.

This state of the famous blank white page that hypnotizes me into a break from thinking, which I am waiting for just as unsuccessfully as for that renowned wall at kilometre thirty in a marathon. That wall, too, never showed up or made itself felt.
It’s clear to me how much I miss out on in life, as other people seem to receive things for free and without effort.
On the other hand, what I constantly find on my plate are these digressions. This may be related to straightforwardness. I appreciate straightforward, firm principles that form the foundation of ethics, but I also enjoy these small or larger digressions. Or in my case, rather the detours. This means that my brain twists and turns in every direction and often doesn’t know where exactly it is. But at least it means lively and intense activity, which impresses me, so when I digress. 
Hang on, I need to check the title. Oh yes, Writing is Thinkable.

It took me many years to come up with this phrase. Actually, many of my endeavours take years, which means I tend to rebel in short periods.

Well, in the absence of writer’s block, I always enjoyed writing down stories and letting my thoughts run free, more so than some of the free-range chickens. 
The fact that I never realized my dream of becoming a writer rarely bothered me. Back then, that was, anyway. I was busy with other important projects.

But this one thought kept coming back to me: “Where do the ideas for the writing come from?” I remember very clearly how I used to write the stories for the Neubad magazine. I had a topic and a few notes. And then I always set myself a 30-minute limit to write a story. After half an hour, I would abandon the story and then hope that it would eventually grow.
Yes, like bread dough or cake. This weird technique is how the morning splinter stories were born. I get up, make myself a coffee, and sit down at the computer. I glance at the blank page—usually white—and type a headline. Without thinking. Well, without consciously thinking. The first word that pops into my empty morning brain provides me with the headline. 
And the story follows as I write. Yes, with seemingly barely active brain cells. No, I’m not showing off, I’m just amazed at how well the morning snippet stories work. 

Today I know: writing animates thinking. Oh really?
During the darkest time of my life, I was buried under an avalanche of problems that needed to be solved.
That’s when I discovered the miraculous medicine of writing. I remember waking up in darkness, my thoughts clouded, usually drenched in sweat, and asking myself hundreds of thousands of questions. I sat down and began to write down an overview—in my case, a laying out of disorder. The questions were no longer “How am I ever going to get out of this mess?” The question was usually “What’s this all about, buddy?” 

Often, I would then hear that soft clicking sound as my synapses got to work. I wrote without hesitation. A staccato of words and sentences raced past my eyes.

And in the end, when the rush of rhetoric had subsided, I saw the result of the story. And lo and behold, the narrative was honest, often structured, and at the end, there was usually one thought as a conclusion: “Hey, I see an opportunity here.”
Writing sets my thoughts in motion.

Thank you—whoever you are—for making me a writer.