Like many writers, there are nights I can’t sleep. I ruminate; think about my characters, my kids, my teaching job, and sometimes, I’ll obsess about the little things in life—like world peace. Other nights, I compose long letters or witty, creative comebacks that I’d wished I’d said to people, but never did. And during a few sleepless hours, like tonight, I get up and write.
The middle of the night provides a dark, quiet space where mysterious magic can happen. When I find myself caught in the web of midnight mania, I go with it, letting go of plot and voice and structure and other writerly work. Instead, I write my stream of consciousness, fingers flying. Eventually, my eyes tire and I wander back to bed, falling into a deep sleep. The next day I read my words, many of them silly and useless, but often I recognize a nugget of creativity, inspiring better plot and voice and structure in my working manuscript.
I don’t recommend nightly trips to the computer, but on occasion they can prove useful, at least more useful than the running to do list. That never changes.