Nighttime is my favorite time of day. Even though I am tired from the strains of the day, I seem to come alive at night. My brain is filled with places and people and stories that are scrambling to get out. They whirl around my head like a brightly light ballroom swirling with gaily clad figures, spinning and twisting to the time of the music. I guess that’s what makes me the serial insomniac that I have been for many years now. I have more creativity spinning around my brain during those few hours of attempts at sleep, than I do in the whole of the preceding day. Sometimes the only cure for that is putting pen to paper (so to speak) and getting the ideas out of my head for good. I always seem to be more at peace when I write.
This, in itself, is an amazing concept, because I seem to avoid writing more often than I give in to it. I write to get my mind off the swirling of ideas, not, necessarily, to give voice to them. I have so many ideas for books and stories stuffed in the attic of my mind, that I barely have room for it all. Rather than purge the superfluous ideas, I hoard them. Like a pirate hiding pilfered treasure, I store mine up for the seemingly inevitable day that I will need them. I don’t use it, or spend it, I simply save it like a scholarly Silas Marner.
I’m afraid. I believe it is as simple as that. I am afraid that nothing I commit to paper will ever be as stunningly imaginative as it was in my head. I fear throwing effort after foolishness, in indulging in the fantasy that my book will be complete, published, and revered. I am loath to spend large quantities of time on a project that may never extend farther than my desktop printer. Yet, I am at peace when I write. Therein lies my predicament.