There’s a new kid on the Orange Circle. The 1888 Center bills itself as “a nonprofit organization providing our diverse neighborhoods creative and cultural opportunities.”

Awesome sauce, but what I really like about them is they let me read one of my essays in public — well, me and a couple dozen other writers eager for our 5 minutes of fame.

The essay I read was actually one I wrote a few years back: “In Two Minutes Time” about the many ways I sneak in writing during otherwise busy days, and wasn’t my husband surprised.

May you, too, find stolen moments in your day to make magic.

In Two Minutes Time

Waiting for my tea to brew.

Standing in line to use the ladies’ room.

At the peak of making love.

This is when I write. Sometimes I have pen and paper; other times they’re just too cumbersome.

I write mostly personal essays, which means I write about my own life and the often intriguing lives of those around me: friends and family, office mates, interesting strangers on the street. Even my two cats serve as inspiration, their keen yet suspicious view of things a primary source for tales of suspense and mystery.

The problem is that as I live the life that generates my stories, there’s precious little time to write them down. My varied roles have me connected to this world and its inhabitants in ways that require at least a show of participation. Daily, I work for my boss, try to be a good wife for my husband, a loyal companion to my friends. Rare is the moment without a task or essential errand. Rare is the time for mere words.

Sometimes I fantasize about leaving my day job and writing full time. I imagine carefree days spent writing the morning away, lazy afternoons out gathering food and sustenance from the outside world, then napping in the late afternoon, draped in the waning sunlight slanting across the bed like a quilt. I dream about the stories I’ll write tomorrow and the next day and the next and …

But then what would I write about? Much as I hate to admit it, my busy life stirs up all sorts of interesting material I could never have imagined on my own. A coworker once barren delivers twins, another gets fired only to travel around the world. A close friend shows me copies of flaming emails between her and her in-laws, triumphantly pointing out the bolded profanities they’d accidently misspelled. The rich drama on the page is a writer’s raw material, ripe for harvest. How could I ever face a blank page without the chaos of real life and still feel inspired?

That’s why I steal time so often, grabbing opportunities when I can. A couple minutes here, a few there; any instance I can find that doesn’t require my full concentration and allows me a private respite of wild writing abandon. I can’t help myself, the words call to me. Sometimes they’re just a whisper, sweet nothings in my ear; other times they’re like a drum beating inside my head, demanding I pay them some attention lest I lose them altogether.

So I write quickly to calm the clamor. I write despite the ticking clock looming over my shoulder. I write because during a very ordinary day in a very ordinary life, I can live my dream. It doesn’t matter that it’s just for a few minutes time. What matters is that it’s there, that I’m there, and for even a brief, fleeting moment, I’m writing, I’m living and my soul is in place.