Ask any kid who’s run out of ideas the second week into vacation, and you’ll see boredom written all over his face. My son took on the typical “I’m-not-leaving-your-office-until-I-am-no-longer-bored’ stance, thrusting his entire frame onto an empty office chair and wheeling around in circles.

“I’m bor-ed!” he chanted to the beating of his own chair whipping. I cast him my most purposeful ‘I’m-not-your-cruise-director’ look, and he disappeared while exhaling the entire contents of his lungs.

Twenty minutes later he raced back into the room.

“I just wrote my very first song. Want to hear it?” and he proceeded to rap the most eloquent text a seven-year-old could possibly muster. Cocking his baseball cap just so, he beamed with pride. I took a step closer, then sniffed.

“Yup. It’s official. You’ve caught the writer’s bug. Welcome to my world!”

Boredom is the best for birthing beauty.