It’s late, and I’m inspired

Night is the time for dreams.

If I remember a dream tonight, I hope it’s inspired by this Valentine’s Day card, because would be a hilarious dream.

It probably won’t be, but I hope I dream nonetheless, because those are such interesting stories.

Night is the time for creativity, for the imagination to take hold. The barriers are down, so dream.  
-Umberto Eco

I come up with a lot of my story ideas at night. It is easier when you’re tired because you aren’t as much of a perfectionist. You’re more willing to take the first thing you think of and run with it.

But I have the problem of too many ideas. Every time I look an object, think of a memory, or read an email from my school warning us about sick raccoons, I want to write about it. No, want is too weak a word; I yearn for my thoughts to overflow on a page.

At night is when this happens most. But at night we are also supposed to do this thing called sleep. Shame.

I guess this is a good problem to have. One day I may have terrible writers block and think fondly of this time. But when I can’t write all day every day, I have to pick and choose. I don’t like it.

“The little devils [each say] to me, ‘Sir, write me, I am beautiful.'” And they are. They each have so much potential.

 

I sigh as I scroll through my computer files: 5 book ideas, countless short stories, and sparse poetry. Poetry isn’t really my thing. But I allow myself the pleasure from time to time.

It’s 9:30PM. Early to most college students but late when you’ve been up early and studying all day.

I open a document. Short story. I’m halfway. Close it. I love it. But I’m not in the mood. I’m itching to write that other story, but I really need to finish this one.

I hunker down to write, sitting on my couch with Spotify going, the productive morning station. My Chromebook rests on my lap, light as a feather compared to my old laptop.

I begin to write. One word after another. That’s how it’s done. And sometimes that’s all you can make yourself do, hoping the words flow together.

I’m a sentence in. And my brain is all over the place. I’ve gone from the train in my story, to the tracks on which it rides, to the car that gets stuck on the tracks, to the person sitting on the side of the road trying to get a signal on their phone, and boom. Setting. Idea. New file.

 

This happens all the time at night. My mind wanders like crazy. It’s great in some ways. Really, I love the process. Even after a long day of studying it energizes me. But there are only so many hours in the day. Only so many minutes you can spend writing down ideas.

Sometimes I forget them, and it’s like a life lost forever. I guess that’s what’s mostly annoying. Like a newborn babe, it was a new creation different from all the others, and to lose it loses so much more than the idea itself; it loses what it could be.

My stories are my children, nagging at me, calling my name, pulling on my pant leg to get what they want.

Often I indulge them, but sometimes you just can’t, and it’s a rotten shame.

 

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