When I first answered this question years ago, I leaned into time travel, jukeboxes, and 24-hour diners. Those images still live in me—they always will—but retirement has shifted my perspective. Now it isn’t about dreaming up another job so much as embracing what I already do: writing, creating art, and taking pictures.
People love to say, “If you do something you love, you never work a day in your life.” I’ve always liked the sound of that, though I know now it isn’t quite true. Writing and art have been part of me most of my life, and while I love them, they demand work—grinding, detailed, sometimes thankless work. The pride comes not from sidestepping that effort, but from doing it anyway and still loving the process enough to come back the next day. That’s the real magic.
Although I’m still tinkering with my time machine in the basement, for now, time travel lives inside my stories. That’s the gift of the page: step through, and suddenly you’re anywhere. And while the dream of owning a 24-hour diner never happened, I still sometimes write in one. The booths are cracked, the coffee burnt, and the danish usually stale—but if you show up before the morning rush, you might catch a fresh pastry and, better yet, a pocket of quiet. The hum of neon, the shuffle of strangers, and the early-morning stillness create a kind of portal of their own.
So maybe I never needed to own the diner. Perhaps it was always enough to sit in the corner with a notebook, bad coffee, and the ache of possibility in the air—time traveling in my own way.
Author’s Note:
The older I get, the more I realize it’s not about finding the perfect job, but finding the space where your imagination can keep breathing. Whether it’s a chipped mug in a half-empty diner, or the quiet corner of your own basement where “impossible” machines get built, what matters is the work you return to—the thing that keeps you curious. For me, that’s the page, the image, the story. The grind and the magic are inseparable.
Reflective Prompt:
Where do you find your own “time machine”—the place, habit, or ritual that lets you slip out of ordinary time and into the work (or play) you love, even when it demands effort?
Memoirs of Madness 
That’s the real magic.
On a side note, when John Swartzwelder, the writer responsible for the most Simpson’s episodes, was told he could no longer smoke cigarettes in the FOX writer’s room, he had a complete facsimile of his favorite diner made in his house so he would fell comfortable writing there.
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Now, that guy had to the right idea. I think I might have a new basement project. (like I need another project) smdh
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