Night before last I couldn’t sleep.
I mean, like I was looking at the clock at 5:00am! Ugh.
I can normally play little games in my head to distract myself from the constant chatty thoughts of my run-away brain. But that night, nothing worked.
Twice I had to grab my phone, put in the stupid password, so I could get to Notes and scribble down the opening lines of poems. My thoughts were all over the map.
Now what’s wrong with this picture? Well, first off, where the heck was my paper spiral notebook? It’s easier for me to scratch out big loopy letters in the middle of the night than it is for my 5am sleep deprived fingers to know the difference between the teeny itty-bitty letters on a phone screen.
Ugh. Ugh. and Ugh. What a long night.
I did those poems, I chatted with a couple of characters in my stories (they say Hi), and I plotted the next bestseller. With so much activity I should have passed out at midnight but nope–my twisted writer brain had other ideas.
I thought several times about getting up.
Hmmm…my creative brain is flowing, I thought. Maybe I should just go tuck into somewhere that wasn’t bed, and write. Omg, the debate that went on in the gray space was utterly ridiculous–just like a barrel of monkeys on the loose with no hope of being mollified.
One side was like yay…let’s go! We’ll eat ice cream and tuck our toes under a nice fluffy blanket on the couch and we’ll write, and write, and write. And everything we write will be worthy of the highest praise. They’ll all be winners in an elite literary writing contest and everyone will love them.
As soon as “literary” entered into the scheme, I knew that side of my brain needed to be paused.
So the other side piped up–there was no use in getting up. Sleep would happen in a minute or two. Probably just seconds away. And the floor–brrr, it’s cold and there is no ice cream. I’m not really a writer. I’m a complete fraud. Such a loser. One who can’t sleep, but alas, a loser nonetheless.
My brain–both sides–eventually crawled back into bed with me and calmed themselves. It was like having little kids in a hotel room where they had to run around and touch everything, bounce on every bed, and kick every wall, door, and piece of furniture before they could settle down. Basically, my brain finally ran outta steam.
They–whoever “they” are–say you don’t ever catch up on lost sleep as it’s gone forever. The opportunity is gone, never to be retrieved. But hey, I have the beginnings of two of My Twisted Writer Brain poems that wouldn’t have happened if I were asleep at midnight. With the good, there’s bad.