It is 4:30 in the morning. While a good portion of the American East Coast is rising to start another day, I haven't finished with the last one yet. I have worked through the night, which, to be honest, is not that uncommon an occurrence for me.
That miserable pattern of lying awake staring at the ceiling, sitting up to read for a few minutes, lying back down in the dark...
...getting up to pee, flopping back on the bed...
...plodding to the kitchen for a snack...
...watching the numbers change on the clock, and wondering if sleep is even worth it at this point is all too familiar.
However, this night is different. Normal insomnia has taken a leave of absence and filling in is a burning in my soul so deep and powerful I simply must answer it's call. This fire, my friends, is the mark of a writer.
Tell me: have you ever felt that tightness of the chest, constricting the very breath in your lungs save just enough for the one story that begs to be told, a story no one has ever read before? Have you ever known a character inside and out before she was even created? Have you ever feverishly recorded events unfolding straight from your brain - your heart - feeling as if the story is writing itself?
Oh, the joy of the pen and paper! The need to be whisked away by the written word as it blossoms into existence is overwhelming! Each sentence of fiction or line of poetry is new, yet to you, it has always existed, though its realization is fixed to this moment of time. Nothing compares with the freedom and release of creating an arrangement of letters and combination of syllables that, because of the magic of language, has meaning.
Most nights, my insomnia is a curse. I wish I could understand this elusive and lucrative thing called sleep. But tonight, it has been a luxury. No sleep disorder is the culprit for my still-made bed this morning. In fact, writing all night has made me legitimately sleepy for the first time in weeks.
Out of all the things expected from life after 23, a chronic health condition making unmedicated sleep almost impossible was definitely not on the list. By the same token, neither was a revival of my writer's spirit. Now I have both, and I have to say, I'd rather deal with insomnia for the rest of my life than miss out on the unequivocal bliss of pencil, paper, and typewriter.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to revel in some of that sweet sleep I've heard so much about.
That miserable pattern of lying awake staring at the ceiling, sitting up to read for a few minutes, lying back down in the dark...
...getting up to pee, flopping back on the bed...
...plodding to the kitchen for a snack...
...watching the numbers change on the clock, and wondering if sleep is even worth it at this point is all too familiar.
However, this night is different. Normal insomnia has taken a leave of absence and filling in is a burning in my soul so deep and powerful I simply must answer it's call. This fire, my friends, is the mark of a writer.
Tell me: have you ever felt that tightness of the chest, constricting the very breath in your lungs save just enough for the one story that begs to be told, a story no one has ever read before? Have you ever known a character inside and out before she was even created? Have you ever feverishly recorded events unfolding straight from your brain - your heart - feeling as if the story is writing itself?
Oh, the joy of the pen and paper! The need to be whisked away by the written word as it blossoms into existence is overwhelming! Each sentence of fiction or line of poetry is new, yet to you, it has always existed, though its realization is fixed to this moment of time. Nothing compares with the freedom and release of creating an arrangement of letters and combination of syllables that, because of the magic of language, has meaning.
Most nights, my insomnia is a curse. I wish I could understand this elusive and lucrative thing called sleep. But tonight, it has been a luxury. No sleep disorder is the culprit for my still-made bed this morning. In fact, writing all night has made me legitimately sleepy for the first time in weeks.
Out of all the things expected from life after 23, a chronic health condition making unmedicated sleep almost impossible was definitely not on the list. By the same token, neither was a revival of my writer's spirit. Now I have both, and I have to say, I'd rather deal with insomnia for the rest of my life than miss out on the unequivocal bliss of pencil, paper, and typewriter.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to revel in some of that sweet sleep I've heard so much about.
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