I stayed up late one night, and now I can't sleep. I close my eyes, lying in bed, listening to everyone else breathe deeply around me, and I can't sleep.
Words float through my mind. They are gentle at first, lazily swirling around and barely taking shape. Rapidly, rudely, they become more demanding. Crashing into one another, and the edges of my brain, they chant and stomp inside my head.
Write me, they command. You know you must.
Because I can never find balance there. I either have words, or I have no words. They don't come at me slowly, measured over time. They either crash in on my awareness and demand full attention like a baby with an empty belly or they dry up inside me and blow away like a dandelion's parachute ball in the wind.
(see how I'm practicing my metaphors? how'm I doin'?)
So, I write. I write until my hand cramps and I run out of lead in my mechanical pencil. I write about an author, and a business woman. The two become friends. I think they want to be lovers.
I have just begun reading The Tao of Writing; it's supposed to help writers write. I had been feeling like I have a block, the dreaded writer's block, and I realised that I've never not had that block.
I lament this block and its unfairness. I shut my book and turn off the light, and as soon as I do the words start their seductive dance inside my head. I thought about opening the gates of creativity, and then it happened. How cool is that?
Now, Universe, about that million dollars and the good night's rest I've been seeking...