It’s Midnight

It’s midnight. That, for a writer, can only mean, thoughts are going to finally arrive. Twenty-three hours of a blank white page, either in my head or on my desk, and¬†now it all starts coming to me.

Only, I want to sleep. My mind can be free from its judgmental self. A dream doesn’t stop in the middle and think, “Is this good enough for my body to experience?” No, it just does, and it just unfolds.

Writing¬†can be the same way. For me, it arrives after midnight, most likely, because when I lay down to go to bed, that’s when the thoughts start (and keep coming). They don’t want to stop, even though, when I wake up at 6 am the next morning (or later that same morning, actually), I will feel like I am dragging a 50-gallon bucket of water on each arm.

Please, someone, find a way to record dreams. And, if it’s any bit of a chance, to be able to edit them… for clarity. No writer would ever edit out a nightmare. Would we?

Maybe.

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