Waking in the middle of the night to a writer's brain.
Soft pillow between my cheek and the cotton sheets. Eyes closed, ready for the slow deafness and the black nothingness that leads you into dreams.
Just as the rhythm of the ceiling fan, the trickle of the fish tank, and the whir of the A/C merge into that blackness, the right side of my brain starts talking, and suddenly Iím upright in bed, squinting at the clock.
I stuff my face back into my pillow, trying to ignore the voice, rattling off title ideas, lines of poetry, character sketches, and the perfect description of the feeling of grass on your skin.
Iíll remember later. Heck, half of this stuff Iíve thought of before.
I roll over and start refocusing on black.
Okay, maybe not half.
The rambling voice turns on the desk lamp shoved close to my bed, and I fumble for my pen and journal. The writing begins. It seems almost involuntary. My hand is cramping up, but I canít stop. A glance at the clock shows 11:40. Iím desperate for my sheets, but the voice continues onÖ
On until an hour has passed. And itís then that Iím permitted to go back to my pillow and my darkness. I keep the pen and paper close-by though; Old Right-Side is known for her late-night awakenings.