By Joe Frey
I love movies depicting scenes when an artist or, especially, a writer is working. Inevitably, the creative type is staring blankly out into a void, often with a pained and tortured expression. Then suddenly, as if overcome by an indigestion relief-inducing belch, the aspect brightens, the head lowers and the masterpiece is propelled outwards as effortlessly as foul, trapped air escaping the esophagus. Creativity, however, is not a function of reverse peristalsis.