The fact that I'm ever able to write a piece of fiction is a miracle to me. Once it's done, I have no comprehension of the process by which it came about.
Usually the only reason I can write a story at all is that I've committed myself to writing it by signing up for a workshop.
For this particular story, I thought that what might help was writing some wildly scribbled incoherent notes, which I then emailed to my friend Janet. At least, I thought, if I save all these notes then I'll know something about how the story came to be written.
Unfortunately, as it turned out, the story as actually written (``Let's Do Lunch'') didn't turn out to be nearly as interesting as the notes.