Creative process

Watson: It was a dark and stormy night…
Holmes: *snickers*
Watson: *sighing* Oh, very well, I shall change it. “…and even here in the heart of great hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney.”
Holmes: I say, that is quite evocative, old boy.
Watson: Thank you. “Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime…”
Holmes: Moodily?
Watson: The way you always are when it rains, like a caged animal reluctantly resting after pacing back and forth all day.
Holmes: If you say so.
Watson: Like a great cat flicking its tail.
Holmes: *growls playfully*
Watson: *grins* Later, dear boy. Do you want to hear this or not?
Holmes: Pray continue.
Watson: “…indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell’s fine sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves.”
Holmes: *coughs*
Watson: What, too poetic?
Holmes: No, it’s just… 87
Watson: What?
Holmes: The W word
Watson: What?
Holmes: *stage whispers* wife
Watson: Oh Lord, was I supposed to be married that year? This is why I read them back to you. *scribbles furiously* How is this? “My wife was on a visit to her mother’s, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street.”
Holmes: Does she have a mother?
Watson: I think so… why shouldn’t she?
Holmes: *shrugs* I suppose. Read on, my dear.