Or maybe an outline?

Both?

Either way, I decided on my walk to the subway I wanted to write. I almost always end up with the conclusion I want to write more, yet I rarely action it. And this is what I typed up with on my brief train commute in my phone notes.

Elevators

I moved to New York City at 24. I never really thought of myself as a country bumpkin, and still don’t. But oh, were elevators foreign. No, not foreign. Forbidden? Supreme? Magical? Special? Off limits? The forbidden fruit.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I had never used an elevator. I had. I remember my dad teaching me to press all the buttons in Embassy Suites. The elevator glass and looking into the lobby.
I had an elevator in the dorms. Where I lived on both the 8th and 12th floors. I had used elevators.
But in NYC they were just so commonplace.
A luxury.
My one apartment building had it.
The second did not. Fifth floor walk up.

My sister asked how long did it take to get to the 50th floor
They are high speed
They are segregated

The wonky one in NY Presbyterian that would almost bring you to your destination and then shoot you back up
Truly worse than the Tower of Terror because damnit, it was Friday and I just wanted to get home.
No grass. Where do the dogs poop?
I had asked the same thing to myself months before when I had first arrived.
And don’t get me started on escalators. Especially those in xx what was that stop in a Brooklyn.

I will circle back and develop this piece (at least that is what I’m telling myself). I just thought it would (could?) be interesting to share what true work in progress writing looks like. We so often only see the final piece, which is kind of boring if you think about it.