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.
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